Legacy
by ruth baulding
Summary: * Continuation of Lineage series (AU) * BOOK I: Newly Knighted Obi-Wan Kenobi and Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn are sent to investigate rumors of slave-raids on an Outer Rim planet; along the way they grapple with ion storms, conspiracy, violence, invasion threats, and the greatest challenge of all: working as equals.
1. Chapter 1

**Legacy**

* * *

**Book I**

* * *

_**Chapter 1**_

"No, no, no, no, no," Senior Healer Ben To Li chuffed, pouring a fresh cup of tea for his guest. "The spacers' legion at the time was _not _ an astro-political entity at all. You must understand its origins as a planetary tribal collective, a sort of ethnological holdover. After the Seventh Vizier wiped out the city-states on the moons, the surviving chieftains banded together to form a rough defensive alliance. It had no legal sanction whatsoever."

"I don't dispute that, Master. What I am suggesting is that the Legion might be better understood as a mercenary guild than a _clan;_ if you look at the contractual arrangements they formed with outlying systems, you must admit they bear all the distinguishing characteristics of a mercantile trading organization."

"Piracy?" the silver-haired healer snorted. "You have a broad definition of _trade,_ my young friend."

"Nonetheless, " Obi-Wan continued, offering a gracious – and ingratiating- smile, "The treaty dynamics do corroborate my point of view."

"Pshaw," Ben To replied, waving a tendon-knotted hand at his eager companion. "Always the negotiator's perspective. You, Kenobi, should have been a barrister. Then you might have been handsomely remunerated for running your tongue in such sophistical circles."

"So you admit I'm right." The young Knight concealed his triumphant smile behind his tea bowl, taking a long and measured draught of Ben To's excellent brew.

His fellow history enthusiast threw up his hands in mock capitulation. "In the interest of sparing my afternoon the tedium of further debate, I'll permit you to walk away serenely mired in your error, yes." He collected the empty cups and saucers, tidying them away in a corner nook. "I'll correct your lamentably skewed perspective next time."

Obi-Wan stood, cloak falling in elegant drapes about his shoulders. "I look forward to it, Master."

Ben To twirled his pointed beard between thumb and forefinger, hustling his visitor into the hushed corridor outside. "Now, as delectably entertaining as this has been, I _must_ return to duty – and haven't you anything better to do with your leave than pay social calls on an old curmudgeon?"

"I cannot think of a more rewarding use of my time," the younger Jedi demurely replied, the Force dancing with a sprightly fire that belied his respectful half-bow. "After all, Master Seva says _to remedy ignorance is a greater victory than any won with the blade."_

"Oh, I see," the healer grumbled, pale robes flapping at his heels as he proceeded down the hall with purposeful stride. "Well, I'm not issuing any merit badges today." They reached the intersection, and the exit. Ben To paused, arms akimbo. "And the answer to your unspoken question – and your _real_ purpose in coming here – is _not yet._ I expect her back within the next tenday – the Alderaanian university system insists on following the traditional indigenous planetary calendar – bunch of stuffy academics with no common sense."

Obi-Wan grinned. "I can't wait to see her again. It's been more than two years."

"Yes... you've grown a half-centimeter and suffered the premature loss of your braid. I wonder if dear Bant will recognize you," Ben To huffed, amiably derogatory. "Now shoo – I've more important things to do than listen to your absurd twaddle about the Teth conflicts."

"Of course, Master Li." Another bow, this one infused with genuine warmth.

The aging Jedi suppressed his pleased smile and waved a dismissive hand before retreating back into the medical ward, a distinct spring in his step.

* * *

"By the Force, Obi-Nobi! You son of a _gundark…! _ Don't you have better things to do than thrash an old man?"

Jedi Knight Feld Spruu's resonant voice echoed sonorously off the polished tile interior of the shower rooms in the upper level Temple dojo. He stripped off his sweat-soaked tunic and chucked it casually into the laundry chute, gesturing eloquently at the burning welt across his ribs, the blue skin blistered and puckered where a saber's edge had grazed too close for comfort.

His sparring partner was not in a contrite frame of mind. "_You _ insisted on half-power. You have reaped the benefits of hubris, and must therefore embrace the lesson."

"You pompous barve," the tall Twi'Lek laughingly retorted, sending the remainder of his garments sailing into the chute behind his soiled tunic. "I hope Master Jinn scorches your knickers next time you match up."

The water in the adjacent stall stuttered on full blast, spattering merrily on the smooth floor. "Ahhhh… _Force,_ that's good," Obi-Wan moaned.

His companion splayed one blue hand on the wall and tweaked the supply pipes' pressure with the aforementioned Force, transforming deliciously hot into freezing cold.

"…_.Blast it!"_ came the very satisfying yelp of consternation from next door.

"Sonics are less wasteful. And _safer, _ my friend." Feld chuckled richly and set about lathering his own lean, muscular frame with cleansing liquid. It had been a hard-fought contest, one lasting far longer than the expected hour. "Embrace the lesson...you have just reaped the benefits of being a cocky scalawag," he called to his neighbor, over the noise of the water jets.

"_Cartu ne'mei yu-da so," _ Obi-Wan smugly shot back, in Twi'Lek.

The elder of the two young Knights choked on the impertinent bilingual pun on _cocky_ and brandished his plastiform bottle in one hand. "Don't make me come wash your mouth out, Kenobi."

"Save it for your future padawan, Spruu."

The pair sauntered into the main aisle, dripping shamelessly all over the traction-padded floor, and headed for the drying jets on the opposite wall. "Do not say the word padawan in front of me," Feld groaned. "I've heard enough about _that_ lately."

His friend grinned. "You _are_ an old man, Feld, if the Council is pressuring you to take on a learner."

The Twi"lek threw up his hands, and switched on the blasting air current. One minute beneath its steady stream of heated air, and their skin was nicely dried. Obi-Wan ran both hands though his mass of damp hair, smoothing it back.

"I've been mandated to attend the next exhibition tournament," Feld ruefully confessed. ".. to find a suitable candidate." He made a comically appalled face. "A wee youngling!"

"He has my pity," Obi-Wan quipped. They rummaged in their lockers for clean clothing.

Feld shook his head, thick lekku bobbing over his broad shoulders, which were dappled with dark indigo freckles. "You know, I was going to volunteer to finish your training – before Master Jinn returned from the netherworld of the Force or wherever he was, and you pulled a typical Obi-Nobi dirty trick and skipped the Trials."

"I didn't _skip," _his friend gravely assured him, deftly flipping his tabards right way round and wrapping his sash with practiced movements. "And besides, I'm too much for you to handle… as we have just demonstrated beyond all doubt."

The Twi'Lek snorted at him, and then paused, arrested by a new thought. "What if I chose a _girl_ one, though, eh? Maybe less trouble?"

"I don't think so, my friend." Obi-Wan allowed his thoughts to stray momentarily to Siri Tachi, a bold counterexample to Feld's thesis if ever there was one. He lingered upon the image for a heartbeat longer than needful before wresting his mind away again by an iron act of will.

"Well then," Feld replied mournfully, clipping his 'saber at his belt, "I am finished. Here stands before you a dead man."

"There is no death; there is only the Force."

"Ha! If only there was no padawan, either." They strode out the exit side by side, heading down the adjacent concourse. Sunlight spilled upon the Temple's inlaid floors, slid caressingly over the deep folds of their cloaks. "Let's discuss something more cheerful – tell me about the mission to Chandrila."

Obi-Wan shook his head and held up a hand. "If I'm to provide a recitation of that woeful tale, I will require sustenance first. I'm famished."

They turned their steps toward the east wing refectory, by unspoken mutual consent.

* * *

"If I didn't know better, I would think it was a tasteless joke on the part of the Council."

Feld Spruu waved his utensil at his dining partner. "Between you and me," he said, conspiratorially, "I don't think old Master Yoda is above a tasteless joke."

Obi-Wan mulled this proposition over. "Possibly - but I had the feeling this was Master Windu's idea." He shrugged. "I don't know... perhaps it was a jab directed at Qui-Gon? The two of them have a long and chequered history of disagreement."

The Twi'Lek Knight grinned. "So goes the legend."

"Yes," his friend replied tightly. He fell silent as a group of smaller initiates was led past in the wake of their patient chaperone. More than one pair of wide, wonder-filled eyes rested upon him with awed recognition before being shepherded down the aisle and away.

Feld's lekku twitched with humor. "They would line up and _fight _ to be _your _ padawan, 'Nobi. Master Jinn is not the only one with notoriety attached to his name."

His companion sighed. "Apparently not." He glanced over one shoulder at the retreating lone of hero-worshipers, acutely tempted to raise his cowl and disappear behind adamantine mental shields… but there was little point in such futile and melodramatic gestures. He was already branded with a _reputation._

"And let me guess," the Twi'Lek Jedi continued, indefatigable. "The delegates at the Chandrilan Unity Convention were also lined up and willing to fight… you and Master Jinn had your hands full."

"So to speak," his friend answered, darkly. "I still don't see why the Order would not send _female _ emissaries to such an event - culturally, historically, the conclave is open only to matriarchs and dedicated priestesses of the Oracle."

"Widows and virgins?" Feld smothered a guffaw. "Maybe the High Council is wise beyond mortal reckoning. Was it a dramatic escape? Did you both survive unscathed?"

Obi-Wan polished off the few remaining scraps on his plate. "Well." A small moue of resignation. "We did enjoy remarkable hospitality. And they were most grateful for the Republic's symbolic presence. They signed a five year plan of concord."

"Victory all around," Feld smirked. "Peace in the sector, successful ambassadorial mission for you, peerless entertainment for the ladies."

The younger Jedi narrowed his eyes at the ribald implications of this statement. "Don't you have something better to do with your time?" he drawled, arching one brow. "Like seeking out a future apprentice? Look there…that little Rodian fellow is drooling. He seems like a fit recipient for your wisdom."

But Feld was not to be so easily discouraged. "Just like those Chandrilan priestesses were fit recipients for yours, eh, Obi-Nobi?"

The jest evoked a vibrant flush in his companion's cheeks. "Thank you for your company, Master Spruu. If you will excuse me…I'm going to go _elevate_ my mind with study and meditation."

The Twi'Lek stood, unrepentantly flashing his brilliant white smile. "Take care, my friend. I look forward to redeeming my honor, at your convenience."

"Delusion ill becomes you, Master Spruu- but I shall condescend to indulge your whim upon the first possible occasion."

A helpful droid hovered near, clearing the dishes and debris. They sallied forth to the summit of a wide stairway flanked by smooth pillars.

"I hope that may be soon… how much longer is your respite?"

Obi-Wan spread his hands. "Days or hours… Qui-Gon and I are officially available for assignment. And Master Yoda says he does not like to keep us underfoot at the Temple."

Feld clapped him on the shoulder. "Tell me when you depart next – I'll stow away. Anything to avoid that younglings' tournament, eh?"

"I won't be accomplice to your irresponsibility," the younger man retorted. "May the Force be with you, Feld."

"My regards to Master Jinn."

They bowed to one another, and parted ways in amiably high spirits, each to the solitude of his own pursuits.


	2. Chapter 2

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"Gracious stars," Madame Jocasta Nu murmured, _tsking_ softly in her throat. "It is past midnight, young one."

Summoned back to the present moment – and the pool of soft radiance now crisply delineating his chosen study alcove from the dusking solemnity of the main Archives hall – Obi-Wan raised his head and offered the revered matron of learning a rueful half-smile. "So it is," he agreed.

Madame Nu looked down her aquiline nose at him, brown eyes twinkling with a light that might be considered mirthful in a person less habitually sober. "Rank may enable one to supercede the Senior Padawan curfew limits," she informed him, laying one age-spotted hand upon the nearest pile of glimmering holo-tomes, "but it does not absolve one from the need for _rest,_ you know."

The young Knight stood, gathering his cloak from the back of a low armchair. "Yes, Madame… you are right." His own eyes glinted mischievously. "Though it would seem age does?"

The Archivist replied with a quiet snort calculated to conceal her amusement. "Seniority,_" _she said, repressively, "bears with it many privileges and burdens."

They strode along the central aisle together, Madame Nu's floor-length embroidered robes whispering against the polished marble, her tight bun and ferociously supple and sharp hair-pin casting long shadows over the watchful bronzium busts of the Lost Ones. To either side, a double storied honor guard of glowing stacks kept perpetual vigil over a millenium's accrued wisdom.

"Good _night,"_ the elderly guardian of this sanctuary intoned, ushering the young Jedi out the double entrance doors and firmly dismissing him with a curt nod of her silver head.

Obi-Wan bowed. "Good night." And he was off, flowing up the ceremonial stairs and down the adjacent empty concourse at a fluid and characteristically jaunty gait, cloak billowing and 'saber hilt slapping against his thigh.

The senior Archivist harrumphed softly to herself, closed the massive bronzium portals, and retired for the night.

* * *

"Open," Obi-Wan quietly commanded the door, striding across the threshold and casually tossing his cloak onto the inset hook with an exactitude begotten of many years' practice.

He halted in surprise. "You needn't have waited up for me," he addressed the common room's other occupant, his twisting wryly at one corner.

Qui-Gon Jinn's long, silver-threaded mane and leonine features were picked out in the chiaroscuro glow of a meditation candle set upon the low central table. He tipped his head back, regarding the late arrival placidly. "Who says I was waiting for you?"

The younger man joined him, settling cross legged upon the empty meditation cushion. "I can sense it – there's no point in obfuscation."

"Ah." The Jedi master smiled a little at the stern tone employed by his counterpart. "I stand guilty as accused."

Obi-Wan sighed. "Master," he grumbled.

The technically obsolete honorific only served to widen the tall man's lurking smile. "Have you eaten?" he politely inquired.

But the innocent question brushed the felix's fur the wrong way, so to speak. Eyes sliding sideways ironically, Obi-Wan released a small breath of vexation. "I _can_ take care of myself."

"No one doubts it," Qui-Gon answered, rising in one graceful motion and crossing the room to close the open balcony doors, shutting out the chill night breeze. A featherlight gust of apology eddied in the Force, across the invisible connection between mind and mind.

Obi-Wan colored slightly, annoyance melting into mortification at his own raw and prickly mood. Perhaps Jocasta Nu's advice regarding sufficient rest had been spot-on. He acknowledged the courtesy with a small dip of the head.

The older Jedi's eyes gleamed with understanding; he sank back down opposite his former padawan and rested powerful hands on his bent knees. "There is a good chance we will be dispatched on a mission tomorrow," he informed his young companion.

"Another diplomatic assignment?"

Qui-Gon shook his head slightly. "No. A situation brewing in the Outer Rim. It would not be… an ambassadorial mission."

Dangerous, in other words. Obi-Wan nodded gravely, absorbing the news. Six months had elapsed since his elevation to Knighthood – a long stretch of time in which he and Qui-Gon had been sent as a team to negotiating tables, peace summits, and interplanetary labor disputes, but nothing more perilous or demanding. The Council had, however, apparently judged that they were separately and collectively prepared for a return to business as usual.

"You are disturbed by this?" the Jedi master broached the simple question tentatively, doubtless mindful of his prior slip.

"Well." Obi-Wan shrugged, then offered sly commentary. "It can't be any more harrowing than Chandrila, now can it?"

They shared a hearty chuckle, voices blending into a harmonic overtone of decorously contained mirth. "Ever the optimist," the older man remarked. "No, I think we may safely assume there will be no, ah, _… liturgical entanglements_ this time."

The young Knight shuddered at the recollection. "Thank the Force for small mercies."

"However… the briefing will doubtless be called early. At the risk of giving further offense, might I suggest we retire?"

"Yes, of course." Here Obi-Wan let his gaze wander across the shadowed common room, tracing the familiar lines of its worn furnishings, the pale curve of the walls, the silhouettes of Qui-Gon's beloved botanical specimens tucked away in their various nooks. The Living Force was placid, welcoming here – but sleep often brought dreams, and Unifying vision: a panoply of twisted faces, fire and floods, screams of a new-born babe, the shriek of saber clashing on saber, the deafening silence of coldest space. Dark veils rose and fell, diaphanous and yet obscuring; white towers crumbled, dark moons eclipsed the sun, dawn broke bloody over an eerily empty horizon. Sleep did not always mean rest, for one so gifted.

And it would be foolish – hypocritical, even – to seek out Qui-Gon's counsel or sympathy after snapping at the man for a simple act of solicitude. He kept his silence, lowering mental shields a trifle, though, in some irrational hope that his unease might be _read _ therein, noticed despite his self-imposed reticence.

But the Jedi master merely unfolded himself and took first turn in the 'fresher, leaving his former student to brood in the gathering darkness. The candle guttered and went out, sending up a fragrant coil of smoke to the ceiling. Obi-Wan breathed it in, centered on the day's multitudinous distractions, and silently took his own turn when the older man had finished. Ablutions complete, he stepped back into a pitch black apartment, navigating his way across the hall without need of sight.

The larger bedroom of the suite's two was now his – Qui-Gon having since his two-year hiatus adopted a more ascetical habit of life than ever – and he dropped onto the wide sleep-couch with a muffled sigh, frustrated at his own lack of communication skill. Though Qui-Gon Jinn was no longer technically his _master, _ the man still occupied an informal but openly recognized role as mentor; what sort of budding diplomat snarled at minor and largely imagined grievances against his own perceived dignity, and then squandered the opportunity to ask for guidance when it was needed?

He shimmied off one boot and then the other, folded clothing in a neat pile at the bed's foot, and rubbed absently at one or two new bruises left upon his hide by Feld's enthusiasm in the salles. Brooding in earnest, he perched upon the mattress' edge, reverently hefting the smooth 'saber's hilt in his hands, tuning himself to the soothing inaudible chime of the twin crystals embedded at its heart. Wisdom. Serenity. Patience. He reached out to place the weapon upon the small bedside stand – only to unexpectedly brush fingertips against a curve of hot ceramplast.

His mouth tightened into a pained smile as his hand closed about the tea-bowl. The sweet-sharp scent of crushed herbs floated up to greet him, soft coils of steam laden with a decade's memory, the earthy incense of a devotion founded upon solemn vows, upon timeless tradition. Brows quirking together, throat inexplicably tightening, he exhaled roughly, his breath ruffling the hot surface of the _peruma _ tea so discreetly - so knowingly- left there for his benefit.

He drank the gift with almost ritual solemnity, and surrendered to its soporofic effects within minutes, sprawling upon his thin palette in dreamless peace while the city-planet ponderously turned upon its axis, carrying them all toward the new day.

* * *

The Council did indeed convene early, and they were the first to be called into that august chamber the next morning. Coruscant's golden sun had not yet climbed past the jagged eastern horizon more than a scintillating whisper; beams of intrepid radiance, the vanguard of day, slanted upward through the lofty panoramic windows and played gaily upon the domed ceiling, prismatic bands of color visible where the transparisteel caught their rays at precise right angles.

Master Yoda's wispy white hair was as unruly as ever, his tiny robes more rumpled and frayed; it might have been a sign of indisposition toward early rising, a theory which Obi-Wan entertained playfully for three seconds before riveting his attention back upon the circle of gathered masters and the purpose of this premature but sober meeting.

"We have decided to send a Jedi investigative team out to Niffrendi, in the Meruu subsector. The rumors we have heard are alarming, and their ramifications extend far beyond the local political situation. We need more reliable information before we can recommend any action to the Chancellor."

Qui-Gon, standing at the center of the inlaid marble floor with Obi-Wan directly beside him – not a step behind, as hitherto had been the younger man's place – inclined his head. "I am familiar with the developments, though…" – he glanced sideways at his former student – "A concise summary would doubtless be appreciated."

Mace Windu steepled his fingers together and launched into a brief narrative for he younger Knight's sake. "The Niffrendi system lies on the far edge of the Meruu cluster; its neighboring worlds are either Hutt controlled or under Togorian territorial claim, for the most part. Recently, the government has submitted petitions to the Senate, asking for permission to raise and maintain a standing army as protection against purported slave-raids by neighboring principalities."

There were already numerous notable exceptions to the Republic's disarmament laws – particularly in the Rims. "Under such conditions, it seems reasonable for the Senate to grant permission," Obi-Wan ventured.

Mace nodded, his growling baritone textured with subtle irony. "The Galactic legislature is seldom fettered by the demands of rationality," he remarked. "However, in this case, their hesitance is justified. The Togorian cheiftans in that sector have been under attack by a new barbarian warrior tribe styling itself the Paxellian Legion."

This had the young Jedi's attention. "I thought the Legion was defunct."

"So did we," Ki Adi Mundi interjected. "But recent intelligence reports seem to indicate a renewed confederacy strong enough to threaten the Togorian monopoly on pirated hyperlanes. And given the Paxellian proclivity for punitive action, there is reason to believe that the creation of a Republic sanctioned militia in that region could spark severe hostilities. The Supreme Chancellor is concerned to preserve the tenuous accord between Rim territories and their non-incorporated neighbors."

Qui-Gon straightened his spine and released a long breath, hands going to his belt. "Though such concord should not be bought at the price of innocents. If there are attacks being made on Republic citizens, we would be negligent not to act - and swiftly."

Mace stirred impatiently. "We are not sending you to _act, _ Qui-Gon. Your mission will be to determine the veracity of these claims about raiding parties – and if they are real, their extent and motivation beyond profit. The Legion never strayed this far into Republic space even during its heyday in the last century."

Obi-Wan frowned. "And if the reports are true?"

Old Yoda grunted, one clawed hand scratching at his ear before he rasped out his reply. "Then confer with Council , you will. Provoke a war in the Outer Rim, we must not. Decide the Republic's course of action, the Senate and Chancellor must."

"Yes, Master." The young Jedi allowed a fraction of his disgust to bleed into the Force, where it was swiftly washed away upon invisible currents. "... So we are acting at the Chancellor's behest, rather than the Niffrendi premier's? "

"Neither. You are acting as private agents of this Council," Mace cut in, leaning forward in his wide chair. "It would be best if your presence on the planet were not _ostentatious."_

"So this is to be a clandestine mission," Obi-Wan clarified.

But the Korun favored him with the most fleeting hint of a smile. His eyes flashed white against his striking dark features. "No," he said, bluntly. "The Galactic Senate and the Niffrendi government will both be informed… at the appropriate time."

_After the fact. _"Yes, Master. I understand."

"Good," Mace intoned. "An unregistered shuttle has been requisitioned for your transport. A charted commercial freighter will drop you inside sublight distance of the planet; use _Katarn_ protocol for communications. May the Force be with you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Coruscant Intergalactic Spaceport was pandemonium given corporal form; amplified droid voices blared out arrival and departure times, cybernetic porters and recklessly piloted hover carts zipped and ploughed their respective paths through the churning pedestrian concourses, vendors hawked food and cheap souvenirs, crewmembers and port officers shouted and gesticulated and sent a buzzing swarm of courier-bots flitting overhead. The high girders rang with cacophony, the air stank of industrial lubricants and ionized metal, the flexi-mat conveyor decks of the swift tubes reverberated with the harried and hurried feet of ten thousand anxious travelers.

"This place is more uncivilized every time I see it," Obi-Wan groused, hands shoved deep into the wide hems of his cloak sleeves.

Beside him, unperturbed by the seething currents of sentient life, and standing astride the moving walkway with a tranquility that suggested to an observer that it was the world flowing past the Jedi master rather than the reverse state of affairs, Qui-Gon lifted his brows. "Says the man journey-bound to the Outer Rim."

The younger Jedi snorted sardonically, distastefully eyeing a garish neonium billboard. The scantily clad Twi'Lek in the holo-ad wrapped one lekku seductively about a Solar Soda bottle and exhorted the eager potential consumer to _Get a Little Fresh. "_I hardly need have bothered, apparently."

The two Jedi stepped off the moving conveyance and threaded their way across the bustling plaza to their assigned boarding gate, where a triple queue was already forming along a massive freighter's open ramps. Droid ticketing clerks scanned data chits and ushered passengers into the hold in small clusters of two and three. Automated luggage carriers stacked valises and gleaming hardcases on floating trolleys.

Obi-Wan shifted testily as they joined the line issuing into the more private forward hold, where individual cabins and other luxurious amenities were to be found. "I do hope the ship isn't wired for sound… if I have to listen to twelve hours of canned synth-band tripe, I'll turn to the Dark Side."

The tall man cast an assessing sidelong glance at his irritable traveling companion and then excused himself. "Hold our place," he ordered, shamelessly asserting the prerogatives of seniority. His long shanks carried him across the echoing hangar at a brisk clip.

Obi-Wan scowled mildly at the abrupt abandonment – but his solitude was of short duration.

"Excuse me, sir… young Master!"

The speaker was an elderly Dressalian accompanied by her even older spouse. The two tall beings were stooped and hunch-backed, their already mournful, wrinkled faces even more deeply scored by time.

"My husband has been pick-pocketed! There is a thief somewhere here… can you find him? The security droids wouldn't do a thing about it, the incompetent buffoons!"

Obi-Wan cast out into the tumultuous crowd, questing through the Force – but there were far, far too many shifting eddies of intention and desire for him to ferret out a single petty criminal. "I'm sorry," he told the aggrieved Dressalian woman. "Have you lost much of value?"

"Not many credits," the elder lamented, "But our boarding passes are gone! Whisked clean away. How will we get home without them?- The ship departs in twenty standard… no time to deal with the all that front desk rigamarole."

The young Jedi sighed softly to himself. Of course this _would _ happen – the Force had a way of issuing strident reminders about patience, tolerance, and humility. Mouth twisting ruefully, he bowed to the distraught couple once again. "Here. These passes are for a private forward cabin – please make use of them. I'll speak to the droid about a transfer."

The recipients of this generosity beamed in astonished pleasure and were mortifyingly effulgent in their praise; he edged away so soon as courtesy would allow, and sidled over to the nearest clerk-bot. "Excuse me."

The thing's optics skimmed him over, head to foot. "Master Jedi."

"My companion and I require transport on this vessel. Is there a berth available?"

Galactic statutes bade captains and charter vessel owners to provide transport to members of the Order at short notice; legal provision was made for compensation, though customarily the favor was granted _gratis,_ out of respect for the Jedi's peacekeeping role. And besides, the legendary Knights were well-known not to be fastidious about accommodations.

A fact which the droid – or its skinflint programmers- seemed to calculate into its response.. "All we have available are bench seats on the mid-deck," it informed him. "I will register you as grade D passengers."

Grinding his teeth, Obi-Wan hoisted the two small travel bags over his shoulder again and made his way to the distant end of the aft-section queue, where the less privileged castes of society jostled and vied for a position in the first-come-first serve converted cargo holds.

Qui-Gon appeared at his elbow a few minutes later, bearing a plasti-foam cup brimful of steaming argees.

"What's this?'

The Jedi master's grey eyes gleamed with hidden amusement. "There is no tea to be had for a parsec 'round… but I thought this would suffice in a pinch." When the jest provoked only an uncertain narrowing of the young Knight's eyes, he added, "Our early departure seems to have cost you a certain disruption of habits.. and mood."

Obi-Wan accepted the cheap offering with a sarcastic grunt. But the dark and oily brew _did_ possess a certain bitter charm all its own, bracing and soothing at once. He sipped at the hot liquid and relaxed his rigid stance fractionally, still idly scanning the Force for some sign of brigandly satisfaction or sneaking guilt among the gathered sojourners.

"I take it there is some good reason we have been downgraded three full classes," Qui-Gon remarked, craning his head over the long line to survey the foot of the last ramp on the starboard side.

"Oh….yes." His companion gave a wry lift of the shoulders, gaze sliding evasively sideways.

The tall man tilted his head. "Oh? Succoring pathetic life forms and we haven't even left the docking pad yet? This bodes not well…especially where leg room is concerned."

"A Jedi shall crave not material comforts nor luxury in his surroundings," Obi-Wan grumpily retorted.

"Hm." Qui-Gon released a grumbling sigh and then lapsed into a disgruntled silence as they shuffled slowly forward into the shadow of the massive freighter's hull.

* * *

Fortunately, the Jedi master's cunning proved equal and proportionate to his partner's gallantry – a skill developed, perhaps, in response to crises provoked by his own acts of impulsive generosity over the passing decades. No sooner had the tall man laid eyes upon the stark rows of plastimold seats bolted to the passenger hold's scuffed deck plates, than he had turned on his boot heel and gone in search of one of his notorious improvisational "solutions", once again leaving Obi-Wan to fend for himself.

The young Knight took up station leaning against the nearest bulkhead, one fold of his cloak open just enough to provide a glimpse of his 'saber hilt to any prurient observer. The subtle hint earned him a comfortable margin of personal space into which none dared trespass, and fended off unwanted small talk. He stalwartly endured a half-hour's worth of canned synth-band music filtering through the ship's interdeck comm system, distracting himself from its grating, simplistic modulations and moronic lyrics by mentally reciting Twi"Lek irregular verb conjugation patterns.

_Ruar'e; rua'o, rua'ay, ruaien, rua'os, rua'yan, ruaienis…_

"Oh baby, just maybe, maybe maybe baby - you got so many 'tennae, so many many 'tennae - can you feeeeeeeeeel me maybe baby?!"

_Tythim'e; tythimio, tythim'ay, tythien, _ was it? No. _Tythim'ien, tythim' stis, _that one always threw him for a loop –

"Feeeeeeeeeeeeel me up, feel me down, get yo 'tennae in my face, feel me feel me feel me, send me into hyperspace!"

For stars' kriffing sake. _Tythim'ien sol-cha, tythim'ios sol-mu…_

"Oh – _whoa!"_ a delighted humanoid voice interrupted his deep contemplation of the pluperfect tense.

He glanced up, suddenly aware that Qui-Gon had reappeared with an actual flesh and blood stewardess in tow. The uniformed girl – a callow new hire no older than Obi-Wan himself – was gazing in awestruck admiration at her Jedi agemate.

Off balance, and embarrassed at his preoccupied mental state, he blushed and executed a neat bow to cover his momentary confusion.

"Well," the girl hesitantly mused. "I mean…. I guess…. Oh hells! Just come with me – I know where you can go. This way." She gestured to the pair of them and led the way back through the packed hold, shouldering between weary passengers and piles of carry-on luggage, the Jedi following nimbly in her wake.

"Why do I have the feeling I've just been _used?"_ Obi-Wan grumbled at his former mentor's back as they entered the connecting passage and made a sharp left hand turn.

"You maneuvered us into this situation," the tall man blithely countered. "You should be happy to make amends in kind – besides, it is not your person as such but certain generic endowments of nature that proved useful."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't need to."

The stewardess keyed open a narrow door and waved them inside the crew's galley and dining room. "Here…just, keep it on the down low, okay? I mean, nobody uses it during this shift. I just don't want any trouble from the bridge officers."

"Your resourcefulness is appreciated," Qui-Gon assured her, with a polite bow.

"Sure," she replied, dreamily addressing the younger of the pair. "Anytime." And she backed out, the door hissing closed behind her.

"You are an unscrupulous scoundrel," Obi-Wan accused his companion, who wasted no time in taking a seat at the table and stretching his long legs out beneath its generous width.

"What? We now have privacy _and_ legroom, and yet you persist in taking exception to my methods?"

The young Knight ran a hand over his chin. "I'm going to grow the beard back," he threatened.

"As you will," the Jedi master smirked. "…But in your position I should simply be grateful that she did not possess _many many 'tennae."_

* * *

Obi-Wan took manifest consolation in the convenient presence of a dataport inside the miniscule galley. 'Pad hardwired into the ship's mainframe and commsatt relay, he happily settled in for the obligatory preparatory research, a tiny furrow of concentration contracting his brows. Qui-Gon prepared a light tea – the galley's supplies were not first-rate, but they were better than nothing – and watched his young counterpart at work.

He knew, because he had been told, that Obi-Wan had been deprived of so much as a single flimsi-bound book during his year-long exile on Melida-Daan. The young Jedi had spent the past six months indulging his already well-developed scholarly interests to the point of passion – though whether this were a healthy compensatory action, an imbalance potentially detrimental to true Jedi serenity, or a mere quirk of native temperament, the tall man had not yet decided. Nor, he reflected, was he under obligation to do so – as his former padawan had pointed out on many occasions, his status was that of _former_ padawan.

But Qui-Gon had never paid much heed to the dictates of such outward obligation. Formal ties may have been severed, but the Force still thrummed consonantly between them, despite the sometimes strife-fretted years that lay behind. Student, teacher, the Force: these are one – so declared the solemn ritual of braiding. Things woven so dexterously together on the flawless loom of destiny were not so easily _unbound_ by a simple act of will.

The transparent glimmering planes of the holo-projector's display were reflected as bright blue beacon-flames in the young Jedi's eyes. They shuffled, disappeared, and rearranged themselves in a whimsical pattern, and then froze. Obi-Wan's keen, unconsciously forward-leaning posture stiffened as he drew himself up and favored the last virtual screen with a severely arched brow.

"What have you there?" Qui-Gon inquired.

His companion's disapprobation was suddenly widened to include the speaker. "The meterological survey for Niffrendi," he replied, a faint thread of accusation in his tone. "I will assume you are familiar with the violent atmospheric phenomena occurring in the planet's ionosphere? The lightning storms which bear the charming indigenous moniker "Heaven's Scythe?""

"They are intermittent, not perpetual," the Jedi master told him, pacifically.

"Yes, well, that is only _intermittently _ encouraging," came the inevitable dark riposte. Obi-Wan's disgusted expression mellowed into grim irony. "I suppose we ought to decide which of us will be burdened with _piloting_ the shuttle down through Heaven's Lovely Scythe,"

A good point. Qui-Gon threw down the proverbial gauntlet. "A game of sabaac, then. Loser takes the helm."

His young friend flashed a fierce grin, mute acceptance of the terms of challenge.

.


	4. Chapter 4

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"Once again, old age and treachery trump youth and beauty," Qui-Gon smugly decreed, tossing his seventh full sabaac down upon the table and leaning back against the padded inset bench. "It would appear the onerous task of piloting falls upon your reluctant shoulders."

His companion's mouth twisted slightly as he tidied the battered flimsiplast card deck into a single dog-eared pile. "Fine."

"I was going to say…. it will make a perfect training exercise."

Obi-Wan cocked a sardonic brow at him. "There are days when I wonder how I ever survived my apprenticeship."

"The sentiment is mutual," Qui-Gon assured him, moustache twitching as he fought down his chuckle of amusement.

* * *

A half-hour before the freighter's scheduled reversion at its first port-of-call, the Jedi sallied out of their interim quarters onto the lounge deck, where the more restless passengers milled about and helped themselves to mediocre fare purchased from the ship's vending droids.

"I'll find the transport officer and see whether our shuttle is cleared for launch in the lower bay," Obi-Wan said, striding off in search of a uniformed crewmember.

Qui-Gon stretched his legs, traversing the length of the blast-sheilded viewport wall on the starboard side. His presence was sufficiently intmidating to ward off the attention of most other occupants – but an elderly Dressalian couple shuffled forward to eagerly accost him mid-way through his perambulations.

"Ah! Master Jedi! Master Jedi!"

He inclined his head, curiously. The wife of the aged pair clasped her wrinkled hands to her bosom. "Are you with that young man? The one who just went forward to the bridge?"

"Yes, we are traveling together."

"Oh!" The crone's rumpled face melted into an expression of relief. "I wanted to tell him… we've found my husband's purse. It wasn't stolen at all- he simply forgot that he had packed it in the other valise. A silly mistake! Isn't that good news?" She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "It would be dreadful to think there was a _thief_ aboard, now wouldn't it? I'm sure he'll be so happy there's no real villain."

The Jedi master maintained a strictly courteous affability. "I shall convey your message."

"Oh, thank you," the woman wheezed. "Come along, Dothby, let's not bother this gentleman anymore."

Her husband blinked and nodded, and hobbled away leaning upon his cane and his wife's arm. They were quickly swallowed up in the tightly packed swell of travelers preparing to disembark.

* * *

"I sensed no deception in them," Obi-Wan muttered, as they made a final inspection of the shuttle's radiation dampers and secondary thrusters.

Qui-Gon slammed the shield generator access hatch closed. "You wouldn't have. They genuinely believed themselves to have been victimized."

They proceeded up the open ramp and through the short storage compartment into the cockpit. The younger Jedi sighed. "I'm sure there's a lesson in this," he ruefully observed.

"I'll let you muddle it out for yourself." The tall man took up position in the righthand seat and brought all systems online.

Obi-Wan ran his hands over the yoke and console controls. "I'll put that high on my personal agenda… right after _attempt suicidal piloting stunt."_

The copilot grimly secured his crash restraints.

* * *

Their shuttle dropped from the freighter's belly just outside the Meruu subsector space-station, where the lumbering vessel docked for refueling and to take on goods and extra passengers. The star cluster for which the sector was named shone balefully in the near-viewport, a bouquet of dying red giants, none of them supporting inhabitable life but their combined luminance making a striking navigational marker.

Obi-Wan arced away in sublights at a conservative speed, wordlessly eyeing the instruments and the navcomp readout until a small chime alerted them that they had crossed into the gravitational well of the nearest star, Niffren.

"Passengers are advised to expect mild turbulence," he intoned ominously, locking course on the fourth satellite and decompensating speed as their trajectory smoothly melded into a centripetal counter-orbit.

"Do not center on your anxieties," Qui-Gon admonished. "It may not be storm season."

* * *

"…Or it may very well be," Obi-Wan dryly observed, as the planet's tumultuous horizon loomed before them. Even at such a height, the fantastic marbled patterns of swirling atmospheric storms and the frenetic blasts of ion lightning carved a hypnotic moving spectacle across the entire visible hemisphere.

"Ah."

The young Knight glanced sideways, mouth thinning. "Why is it that we must always encounter complications? Why is it never easy?"

"We are sent to deal with trouble," Qui-Gon replied, reasonably.

"Yes, but _meteorological_ trouble?" Obi-Wan thrust a hand at the nightmarish scene just below. "It's like a cheap plot device in a serial holo-novel."

"I will leave the comparison to your superior expertise in the literary realm," the older man murmured. "…And perhaps you should focus upon the _technical_ aspects of piloting."

His companion nearly rolled his eyes. "Yes, _Master_."

They dropped cautiously into the topmost layer of atmosphere, the black of night paling into vibrant indigo as refracted light swelled within the horizon's wide basin. The shuttle bucked and shuddered, all manner of console alarms bleeping for attention.

"Lovely," the pilot grumbled as the sensor fields shorted out. Then, as a bright afterthought, "I should have brought a blindfold. To add an element of challenge."

Of course, it was hardly funny, as they were now plunging into unpredictable primordial chaos without benefit of natural or artificial sight.

"Relax," the Jedi master advised. "You're sweating. I haven't seen you this on edge since-"

His fond reminiscence was abruptly cur short by a severe pressure differential that sent them plummeting at least two hundred meters in one fell swoop. The ship thrashed and jerked, keeled wildly in the buffeting wind at this new level, and then evened out. Obi-Wan's knuckles stood out white as he wrestled the yoke into submission and routed more power to the stabilizers.

"I have a _very_ bad feeling abou-"

A gust of _something _ sent them spinning into a violent corkscrew. The shuttle's drives whined and howled in protest, the gravity compensator hiccupped badly enough to wreak havoc on their inner ears, scattering all innate sense of direction to the four winds, and the portside wing creaked ominously as they were thrown willy-nilly through Niffrendi's angry skies.

Somehow Obi-Wan pulled them through it, teeth gritted and forehead glistening with perspiration now as he fought for control, the Force taut as he called upon it to enhance concentration and reflexes, and to effect not a little gross physical manipulation of the ship's mass. They plunged lower, hit a steady current and sailed in a sickening loop along the edge of destruction.

"Have I ever mentioned that I hate flying?" the young Jedi inquired, conversationally, sending them into a nosedive as the colossal storm front collided with a frenetic pillar of wind and cloud, shattering into deafening sound and immeasurable furor.

Qui-Gon unclenched his hands from the console's edge. "You may have dropped a hint or two."

Whereupon the heavens erupted into excoriating brilliance, sheet lightning cleaving the world into skewed planes, bright white blades sweeping like giant scythes through cloud and wind, shattering vision into black after-image, sound into empty thunder, space into scattered and whirling confusion.

"Get us out of here!" Qui-Gon barked.

Obi-Wan didn't need telling twice – the shuttle veered wildly downward, careening in a jagged spiral as intersecting blasts of fire cut the atmosphere to shreds, to blinding pennants of flame. The ship's electromagnetic compass blew out in a shower of sparks; the drives groaned in agony, the hull rattled uncontrollably. Lightning seemed to reign triumphant, horizon to horizon, the entire globe haloed in a nimbus of angry light, death raining down from on high as they dodged and dived, spun and dropped at a desperate, Force-guided speed, hurtling thorugh certain obliteration toward the unforgiving peaks of a mountain range below.

"Pull up," Qui-Gon growled. "Pull _up- the compensators, _ Padawan!"

"I'm trying!" the pilot snarled. They rolled wildly as a jagged finger of lightning thrust down at them, splintering the mountaintop far below.

An updraft seized them in its claws and whirled the ship high, tossed upon an invisible geyser spout of roaring wind. The console screamed, displays blacking out as the power cells overloaded.

"Flying is for _droids,"_ Obi-Wan hissed, through clenched teeth. He shut down auxiliaries, diverted emergency power to the thrusters, and battled heroically with the helm – but the hurricane would not relinquish its grip. "Blast blast blast blast blast -"

"Don't _fight it,"_ the Jedi Master advised, tension simmering in his voice.

Obi-Wan's temper overflowed its high levees. "You were _quite_ eager to delegate this task to me!" he snapped. "Would you _like _to take over the piloting?"

They hit a pressure pocket and grunted in unison as the ship collided headlong with nothing, jerking them painfully forward against the crash restraints.

"In the name of -!"

Heaven's Scythe blasted through the vortex, slicing diagonally across the twisted skein of cloud and wind; the Jedi cried out as the Force's warning set their blood afire, as the ship was hurtled straight down the storm's funnel-shaped eye, as a secondary current smashed into them and sent them careening upward again, the drives at maximum but powerless to counter the power of the cataclysm.

"Force's sake!" the young Knight spat, hair plastered to his forehead, mouth hardening into a line of sheerest battle-fury. He flipped the vessel upside down, cut all thrusters and ramped the repulsors to their highest setting.

The gravity-inverters bucked like an untamed nerf and then kicked in, blasting them down again in a long sailing arc, like a stone skipped violently across a raging sea. The shuttle bounced, underbelly pointing heavenward, fuselage blackened and scorched by a dozen near-brushes with death, and plowed upside down into a mountain valley, shearing off a kilometer's worth of bushy tree-tops before wedging itself in the boughs of a monstrous native _seequoo_ with a squealing crash to rival the surrounding thunder.

* * *

Suspended in their crash harnesses, the Jedi neither moved nor spoke for a long minute. The double hammering of their hearts, the deep panting of their breath, the bitter adrenaline tang in the Force slowly subsided.

"Well. That was good," Obi-Wan decided, voice twisting with sarcasm.

Beside him, long mane hanging down in a comical curtain, Qui-Gon released a long centering exhalation. "You executed that with typical panache," he observed.

His companion drew a tunic sleeve across his face and wrenched at the release mechanism for the crash netting. Liberated, he flipped elegantly onto his feet upon the inverted cockpit canopy. Wide green leaves and broken branches pressed against the viewport, obscuring their view. A gentle pattering on the hull heralded the advent of rain. "Wonderful." He craned his head round and pried open the console access hatch. "Circuits are fried – but reparable, I think."

"We need to amend your docking position first," Qui-Gon told him, slipping out of his own tangled harness and gingerly testing the ship's balance in its high eyrie. "We'll exit through the ramp."

A few minutes later, two brown-cloaked figures scrambled out of the inverted ship's hold and vaulted to the sequoo tree's gnarled roots fifty meters below, springing from branch to branch and dropping the last ten meters in a graceful controlled fall. The light rain did not penetrate far past the forest canopy; a light spattering of moisture freckled their hoods and dusted the knee-high bracken underfoot.

The ship lay cradled in the interlocking boughs of the tree and its two closest neighbors, the gleaming alloy of its hull glinting dully where moisture trailed along its contours. Obi-Wan gazed through the tight-packed colonnade of the surrounding forest, a cathedral extending in all directions. "There's a clearing – just beyond that ridge."

Qui-Gon's thumbs hooked through his belt. He gauged the distance with narrowed eyes, squinting up at the massive bulk of the ship overhead. "Do you have it in you?" he asked, warily.

His counterpart stiffened. "We can manage it. Together."

But a slip would prove disastrous. The older man hesitated. "Obi-Wan," he admonished. "There is no need to push limits – "

The young Knight's brows shot up. "Oh... yes. I'll be sure to limit my activities to moderate exertion, such as piloting through a class three atmospheric storm."

They faced off, the drizzle gathering in damp pools among the folds of their cloaks.

"This is not about proving yourself. Moving _that ship," – _the Jedi master jerked one hand at the massive object suspended in the trees –"to _that_ clearing is not a minor feat of Force manipulation. You need not feign omnipotence simply because you've attained rank."

A muscle in Obi-Wan's jaw twitched. He glanced away, fuming. Silver droplets cascaded to the hushed forest floor; the wind's susurration rose and fell, texturing the silence with a rhythmless chant.

At last, the younger man dropped his eyes. "You are right," he agreed, flatly. "We'll wait."

Qui-Gon nodded. "A wise choice."

"I'll reconnoiter," the younger Jedi decided. A moment later, he turned on his heel and stalked off into the forest, tugging his cowl far forward over his face.

Qui-Gon frowned after him, bemused. For someone whom he knew so very, intimately well, Obi-Wan could still on occasion prove difficult to understand – and had always been difficult to _talk to._ He sighed, and set about preparing a makeshift camp beneath the sheltering boughs of the sequoo, consoling himself with his fundamental faith that the Force would present a solution, to this as to every other difficulty along the path.


	5. Chapter 5

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Obi-Wan reappeared within the hour, slipping through the gathering dusk as smoothly as the lengthening shadows between the forest's pillars, his presence no more than a darkwing moth fluttering home on gossamer wings. Even Qui-Gon did not sense his approach until he crossed the pale threshold of illumination cast by the small campfire.

The tall man welcomed him into the warm circle with an open-handed gesture, making no remark upon the impressive deployment of Shadow's skills. To say _Master Dooku has taught you well_ would serve no diplomatic purpose, and raise the spectre of an uncomfortable truth still lingering forgiven, but not forgotten, between them.

The younger Jedi settled close beside the crackling flames, gaze fixed on their liquid white hearts for a long moment before he spoke. "Master," he began – the very form of address a compressed eloquence of its own – "I wish to apologize."

Qui-Gon dipped his head, attending patiently.

But his companion lapsed into a brooding silence, contemplating the fire's hypnotic undulations with grave, introspective mien. "It's strange to be out in the field again," he said, at length, glancing ruefully up at the strife-fretted dome above. "I mean, the _real_ field, not a fatuous diplomatic event."

The tall man smiled, faintly. "This mission marks a transition, indeed."

Obi-Wan met his gaze briefly, deep orange highlights cast over high cheekbones and furrowed brow. "I remember," he continued, cautiously, as though treading on unstable ground, "On Melida-Daan…." A pause, then a bold push forward again. "There was no question of limits. We were _at_ the limit – all the time. Or past." He contemplated the fire's languid permutations, face bathed now in gold and crimson. "I did what I had to do. There was no _limit, _only survival or failure. Flying down here…" He waved a hand, expansively. "I reverted to habit. It's a stupid younglings' mistake."

"It is a natural, and understandable mistake," the Jedi master replied. "Look upon it as an opportunity to learn."

Yes, well, I seem to have much to _unlearn."_

"As do we all. I've prepared your favorite field ration gruel, if it's any consolation."

Levity rejoined the comfortable circle of their gathering. The fire's glare seemed to soften a trifle. "More like a penance, if you ask me."

"As you say; in either case, however, it is sure to build character."

Obi-Wan offered him a thin, lopsided smile and accepted the unappetizing offering with good grace.

* * *

Much later, as they lay side by side while the fire smoldered down into blackened ruins, Qui-Gon watched his companion drift suspended between wakefulness and the Force, gazing upward at the swirling storm above in a half-trance, eyes open but focus far, far inward, where the invisible fountain of life welled endlessly into being, tracing pasts and futures into the present moment's pristine reflecting-pool, where lightning and strife were reflected in blue-green depths.

"You should sleep," he said, despite himself.

The suggestion broke the tranquil surface, spreading out in ripples of annoyance. Obi-Wan rolled his head sideways and offered him an exasperated grimace. "Isn't that a bit like a Hutt calling his mistress fat?"

Qui-Gon smiled. "Touché."

The young Knight propped his hands behind his head and peered critically at the heavens once more. "You know, " he observed, "If this storm system has been raging for the last month, it's difficult to imagine a raiding party successfully entering or leaving atmosphere."

"A fine point. From which you infer…?"

"Either that the supposed raiders are still lurking here on-world, or else that the latest villainies never actually happened."

"Either possibility is disturbing," the older man agreed. "What does the Force tell you?"

Obi-Wan's mouth quirked impishly at one corner. "That I should sleep," he blandly replied, turning his back to the Jedi master and pulling his cloak and thermal blanket snug about his shoulders.

* * *

Shortly after dawn, they turned their mutual attention back to the problem posed by the inverted ship. The atmospheric storm smothered the sun's rays into a diffuse blanket of grey radiance, pale fingers shafting brokenly through the marbled cloud – but the Force rose radiant and unsullied, kindling the new day's beginning in their blood, in every measured breath of their shared meditation.

Thus fortified and nourished, they set minds to the new task, standing beneath the mighty trees with arms raised and eyes serenely closed, wrapping the forest's life about the heavy mass, lifting it ever so slowly, cautiously, into the air. The shuttle teetered slightly, then evened out, wafting over the treetops on an invisible current, serenely aloft in the Force's effulgence. It sailed overhead, majestically, sending lines of startled avians fleeing upward with many a squawk and shrill of resentment, its hull brushing the canopy leaves, breaking an occasional branch here and there. The Jedi trod with ceremonial gravity beneath it, following the progress of its shadow across the mottled forest floor, until they and their weird burden, hovering like a silver cloud, reached the open courtyard of a small clearing.

The ship wobbled, descended, and then softly lit upon the knee-deep grass of the central meadow, furred creatures erupting from hiding places as its extended landing prongs sank deep into burrow and tunnel beneath the loamy soil, steam rising off its gleaming sides as dew evaporated in the rising warmth.

Obi-Wan let the Force go, reluctantly, folding his hands into opposite sleeves and opening his eyes upon the tranquil scene. Already the ship had been received by the forest. A pair of gorgeously plumed birds perched atop the viewport's curve, happily preening one another.

"That'll mean some cleaning later," he prognosticated, imagining the vessel covered in a sticky and odiferous layer of guano.

"It can't be helped," Qui-Gon replied, opening the ramp and slipping inside the hold. "Let's see how extensive the damage is."

* * *

They had restored the main systems to full functionality by midday – not a complete refit, but enough to insure a quick exit and a safe hyperspace jump at the end of their tenure here. A Jedi did not maneuver himself into a corner, if at all possible, and a stranded ship was a notoriously tight corner in which to be caught.

"A good landing, all things considered," the Jedi master decided, when the routine maintenance chore was finished. "The recruitment team for the pilot program will be banging down your door next."

"Force forbid," Obi-Wan grumbled.

The older man swiveled in his chair at the systems diagnostic computer. "Your friend Garen Muln has enrolled for a full three year rotation. Master Rhara was nearly exultant."

The young Knight snorted. "Oh, I'm sure. But in my case, misery does _not _love company. I'll stay on the ground, thank you."

"Speaking of which, shall we…?"

Obi-Wan made some last consultation of the navcomp. "I think the magnetic compass blew out – but if this positional estimate is correct, we're not far from the site of the last reported attack. Maybe…. twenty klicks. I couldn't have planned it better."

Qui-Gon raised his brows, teasingly. "Arrogance is a dangerous companion on the way."

His young friend shrugged at the familiar Jedi aphorism. "So is one's former master," he quipped. "I'll take my chances."

"Good. In that case, we'll head straight down the southern slopes. The nomadic tribes seem to be a primary target – if we can locate one of them, we'll make that a starting point for investigation."

They tightened the seals on their survival packs and headed down the ramp, side by side.

* * *

Qui-Gon's use of the term "slope" proved to be highly euphemistic. The sheer cliff-face took more than two hours to successfully scale, even with the assistance of cable launchers, and landed them upon the stony banks of a river canyon winding along the mountain's feet. They could not see past the curved walls of this sinuous gauntlet, nor had they been able to use the active scanners to get a geological readout, the atmospheric interference proving to great for the shuttle's damaged equipment to handle.

Obi-Wan looked upstream and down. "We're flowing downhill, I presume," he said, setting off along the right-hand bank, springing lightly from boulder to algae-slick boulder. The water burbled happily beside him, ornamental white eddies appearing here and there in its energetic current. "I do hope there's nothing nasty around the next bend."

The Force was placid, however, so they pushed onward, mindful of the lengthening shadows falling across the deeply carved valley.

"It's… good here," Obi-Wan ventured at length, with an almost childlike simplicity.

"When was the last time you were in a proper wilderness?" Qui-Gon mused, reminded again of the hiatus in their shared history.

"Outside a desolate wasteland? A while," his companion admitted, with a small chuckle. "You're wearing off on me, at long last."

"It had to happen sometime." They stopped, balanced upon a large stone mid-stream. The tumbling waters flowed by on either side, an endless ribbon of shadow and light hurrying onward to an unknown future. A light breeze picked up and riffled the hems of their dark cloaks, tugged at unbound hair. The Living Force sounded like a great tympanum, reverberating in light and leaf, coursing stream and measured breath. Qui-Gon rested a hand on his former apprentice's shoulder, wrapping them both in the perfection of the moment.

And then they moved on, hastening now to outrun swiftly waning daylight.

* * *

By nightfall, the canyon had widened to a steep series of falls descending the foothills in boisterous succession. The Jedi clambered down the scree beside them, mindful of the lichen crusted, treacherous footing and unreliable handholds. Where the tumbled rock gave way to boulder-strewn grassland, the river pooled into a shallow lake ringed by monolithic structures, slabs of stone thrown by giant hands down the slopes, to land here helter skelter like discarded toys.

They dropped their packs by unspoken consensus and filled water-canisters at the water's edge. Overhead, the storm retreated a distance, circling the periphery of heaven with angry fire but leaving the stars directly overhead visible. The Meruu cluster shone bright, five or six beacons hung like festival lanterns at the planet's pole.

"If I were superstitious, I'd say that's a good sign."

Qui-Gon drank in the sight. "Belief in good signs is not superstitious," he argued, mildly. "Only the belief that such signs are not rooted in the unifying Force."

His companion gaped at him. "Now_ I'm_ rubbing off on you."

The Jedi master cocked an amused brow. "Don't call the soul healers until I start lamenting the uncivilized condition of our surroundings."

"Ha." The younger man tucked their belongings beneath the shelter of a particularly grotesque boulder and stretched out supine, head resting on his pack. "It's much warmer down here. We needn't make a fire."

"No." Qui-Gon joined him beneath the scant overhang. "There are an estimated hundred thousand persons living in indigent communities out here on the equatorial plains. Much of Niffrendi's original colonization was effected by runaway slaves from the Rims - and that unofficial influx still accounts for most the immigrant population."

"Yes, I dug about in the historical files and discovered that the system's incorporation as a Republic protected territory did not sit well with the nomadic groups – they did not wish for the imposition of federal galactic law."

"And who can blame them?" the Jedi master quietly mused. "Freedom is hard won – and sometimes it is better left untainted by the machinations of so-called democracy."

This earned him a startled silence. "You sound like Dooku sometimes, Master."

There was a thread of worry beneath Obi-Wan's lighthearted tone.

"And you sound like me sometimes, did we not just agree? Do not worry, young one, I am not plotting sedition… nor planning another apostasy."

His counterpart scowled., a wordless chiding felt through the Force rather than seen.

"That _is_ why Master Yoda was so happy to see us partnered, you realize," Qui-Gon continued. "The Council relies upon you to keep me in line."

"Well, I'll certainly do my best," the young Knight drawled. "But _a river in flood carries the dam with it."_

"_To forbid a thing is not to stop it, nor is punishment the same as teaching_," the Jedi master retorted, deploying another quotation from his arsenal of traditional platitudes.

But there was no beating Obi-Wan at his own most cherished game. "_Wisdom may point the way, but an old fool will still follow the rut of his prejudice."_

"I surrender,"Qui-Gon responded, airily._ " _After all, _Words are a but a sieve through which true insight slips, leaving the dross of concept."_

"Master. You cannot take a last shot after you have conceded defeat."

"Oh? Why not?"

"It's against the Articles of War. Besides, Shantar B'kleva was an epistemological relativist and a heretic. Quotations from his opus don't… don't _count_."

"Ah, alas. I appear to have been kept in line."

The Force chimed with their amusement, and the last glimmer of light faded over the imposing hunchbacked ridge, leaving the clustered stars above to shine on in distant splendor.


	6. Chapter 6

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

In the dead of night, Qui-Gon jolted awake, chill premonition racing down his spine, a bright actinic flare seeming to set his blood alight as he leapt upright in one powerful motion, 'saber hilt springing into his hand.

The spheroid probe droid's repulsors thrummed like the wings of a stinging wasp, a menacing whir as the dark shape dropped stealthily from the tree-tops, black against blacker night, only the tiny glimmer of its targeting light betraying its presence behind the inky veil of night. The Jedi master's blade snapped into life, emerald fury raised to meet the challenge, the weapon's voice deeper, louder, truer than the shifting whine of the seeker-droid's engines. The enemy drew closer, closer –

-and a second shape plummeted from on high, a storm-cloud spitting merciless sapphire lightning. A screaming blade passed through the droid's carapace, cleaving it neatly in two; a lithe form dropped to the soft undergrowth with a muffled thump, and the sparking carcass of the hunter rattled and bounced from jutting branch to sweeping bough, landing at the feet of its conqueror.

Qui-Gon's blade hissed back into its hilt at the same moment Obi-Wan's did.

"Not much gets past you," the tall man observed, noting his private pang of mingled pride and chagrin that his former padawan seemed to have sensed the threat before _he_ had.

A small shrug. "I don't sleep well." Obi-Wan replaced his 'saber at his belt. "As you know. It's a distinct advantage in the _anticipating ambush_ department. …I wonder what we've got here."

They knelt together beside the mangled remains of the probe unit, examining the slagged pieces by the lurid radiance of a glowrod. The younger man turned the broken components over in his hands, curious. "I've not seen this sort before."

Qui-Gon rolled back on his heels, chuckling grimly. "And that is where the advantage of age is most apparent – these models went out of manufacture before you were born. I remember a few, though."

"What is it? Obviously some sort of recon unit – this cannon is useless, it hasn't a swivel mount, the entire droid would have to shift trajectory to get off a shot."

The Jedi master peered at the underside of his half. "The weapon is merely for clearing away obstacles – these are not hunter-killers, merely surveillance drones."

This elicited a frown. "I felt _danger…_ why would a mere spy bot create such a disturbance in the Force?"

Qui-Gon pointed to the seam joining upper plates to the motive center. "See if you can extract the comm circuits. If the thing itself does not account for the threat, then its purpose must."

The young Knight nodded, absorbing this answer with characteristic seriousness. "It's the forerunner of trouble." He slipped two fingers between his calf and the inside of his left boot, extracting a beautiful Vespari steel knife from its hidden sheath. "But I think it's met its match," he grinned, flashing a wolfish smile for a fleeting instant before somberly applying himself to the task.

* * *

"Look – just here."

The two Jedi crouched together beneath their shelter, watching the holo- playback spin and scroll above Qui-Gon's compact projector plate. The shimmering coordinate sequences alternated with longitudinal cross-section maps, one after another in rapid succession. Obi-Wan allowed the recording to roll through one more time before pausing it . "There." His finger traced a taut, eager circle over the transparent geological display. "Those are the hills just behind us. The relay station must be up there somewhere…maybe at this summit. We could trace this back to source. It's related to the attacks – I can feel it."

The older man was not so impetuous in his ambitions. "I agree – the drone is important. But our first priority should be to make contact with the sentient population. Living witnesses may prove more helpful to our cause than a tech trail which may, after all, prove a dead end."

Obi-Wan pitched his voice low, as though addressing a fractious delegation. "It may, of course… but we've not yet encountered them – and here is a lead, at hand." He lifted his brows, marginally. "An opportunity in the present moment."

It was a sales pitch honed perfectly to its intended audience, but Qui-Gon was not in a buying mood. "Our primary aim here is to determine the truth of rumored events; and truth is something better sought within the experience of living beings than through a data-trail."

Nettled, Obi-Wan crossed his arms, settling back on a fallen log. "If you say so."

"I do."

"Well. Your confidence in human honesty and goodness is ... inspiring."

The sentiment rang of Yan Dooku' s supercilious cynicism; Qui-Gon skewered his former padawan with a look that once upon a time would have instantly reduced all such impudent protestation to silence, if not outright apology – but there had been a subtle sea-change wrought even here, in the unspoken lexicon of gesture and expression. The young Knight's mental shields lowered a trifle, allowing a hint of genuine regret to shine through the dark curtain of his outward disapproval, but this paltry peace offering was the only concession he made.

"Good. We'll continue on our present course of action." Having thus forcibly wrested the disagreement into a simple concord, for lack of any _defined_ authoritative prerogative, Qui-Gon stood, disconnected the holo-plate, and brusquely stowed it in a belt pouch. "Let's get going – we should be able to cover a good deal of ground today."

His companion fell in beside him, ill temper slowly disintegrating into the Force's broad currents as they set off into the grasslands beneath a sky luminous with endless strife. The rising sun set fire to the horizon's rim, a thin coronet of liquid gold banded about the world's extremities, dividing raging heaven from cowering earth, day from night, and memory from present reality.

* * *

The wide green expanse rolling out from the mountains' feet was clearly an ancient glacial plain, one still strewn with the looming shapes of massive boulders, stark white shapes thrusting like bizarre sculptures in a meditation garden, the soft ripples of grey-green groundcover swirling about their feet. The plants turned out not to be thin, stalk grasses such as predominated similar landscape on other worlds, but rather hardy low-lying nets of flat-leaved, quasi-succulent vine. Their boots made not a sound as they passed along this velvety, never-ending carpet, watched over by the monumental white stones and a perpetually glowering sky.

Several klicks out, when the line of hills had receded into the background, a dark speck appeared on the western horizon, keeping pace with them but never venturing nearer. A thin, whining note of menace sounded in the Force.

"Another," Obi-Wan grunted, glancing sideways at the cautious sentinel droid.

"Hm." The Jedi master strode onward, unconcerned. "Its presence suggests that this is a populated area… we're sure to find a nomadic group out here."

"We're sure to lead trouble their way, too," the younger man observed.

"And if we do," Qui-Gon countered, "We shall meet it head on."

Which was a sufficient plan for their present circumstance and degree of information – but he could sense his companion's lack of ease. Melida-Daan had taught its own harsh lessons: the survival of the fittest, the need to protect at all costs, the innumerable stresses of defending the few against insurmountable odds had all worn deep channels of wariness, of ruthless tactical cunning, into the young Jedi's soul. In many ways, he was older than his scant twenty years; in other ways, perhaps, younger. Or cheated of youth. Qui-Gon slowed beneath the nearest boulder, a solitary slab of white-blue mineral jutting at a drunken, skewed angle from the earth. "Obi-Wan," he said, resting one hand against the smooth side of this monolith.

The inquiring gaze that met his own was open, curious.

"Whatever threat may lurk behind these probes," Qui-Gon reminded him, "Is no match for the Force." he gestured expansively, encompassing the entire wind-swept plain, the thundering dome above, and finally, the two Jedi themselves. "You are not without allies, here."

The reassurance shafted home, and then rebounded as gratitude laced with pain. Memories splintered like lightning, afterimages darkly branded upon the Force, across their bond. Obi-Wan looked down, then back up. "I've… I've grown used to being alone." He exhaled, slowly. "Even the Force was darkened there…. I knew it was a losing battle, the entire time." His eyes sought Qui-Gon's, riveting the older man with hard-edged fact, truths lacking the barbed edge of accusation, yet still razor-sharp. "You left. Dooku left. The entire Republic had abandoned them. And then… I feared that I had fallen, that _I _was a threat as well. I can't …"

"You triumphed, in the end."

Obi-Wan's somber expression did not waver. "Yes. But it's hard to remember… what it was like before. This is the first time…"

The tall man risked a step forward, and gripped his former padawans' shoulder. "This is not Melida-Daan. We are not the hunted." He nodded his head at the hovering speck, patiently keeping its distance. "We are not bringing trouble. We _are _trouble… for whomever is initiating these attacks."

He knew Obi-Wan well, and he knew that the invitation to mischief would spark a guttering fire to vibrancy. He was rewarded with a fierce flare of warmth in the Force, but also a rueful half-smile. "I'm sorry,…Master. I should not be so imbalanced. I am a Knight , and –"

"And Master Yoda himself suggested _without censure_ that you might benefit from, say… thirty five years' superior experience?"

The jest was weighted with a heavy ballast of affection, a counterweight to keep them level amid turbulent seas.

"And here I thought it was a ploy to rejuvenate your waning vitality," Obi-Wan quipped, dodging expertly around the unspoken truth, thus acknowledging it without running them aground on treacherous rocks.

They pressed onward, their unwelcome pursuer remaining steadily at the periphery of vision, a tiny itching ripple in the Force like a bothersome tisska-fly.

* * *

The land dipped to form a natural basin, a place where some long-ago seismic disruption had carved long natural terraces, a stairwell now carpeted in dappled green moss and tiny wildflowers. At the center of this depression stood another scattered ring of stone, stray sheep from the petrified flock above. And amid these hunched white stones, blue and indigo in the shadow of the bowl, campfire smoke twisted skyward in sinuous ribbons.

The Force shuddered delicately, subliminal thrumming widening into a prismatic melody: sentient beings, busy about their tasks.

Qui-Gon Jinn smiled in satisfaction and led the way down the steep causeway, bounding lightly from step to step. The Jedi's arrival attracted notice, but no open hostility; though a few of the ragged company that gathered shyly to meet them had old-model blaster rifles in hand, the weapons were grasped loosely at their sides, or else kept holstered entirely. The band of nomads was a startling medley of different species, representing most the major ethnological groups populating the Outer Rim in this sector. At their head stood a human in his sixties, or perhaps a vigorous seventy.

When the visitors stopped a cautious handful of paces away form the slowly-growing crowd, this man gestured his companions to wait, and strode forward boldly.

"Well met," he greeted them, voice rasping like a habitual bacci-smoker's. His slightly jaundiced eyes surveyed their clothing. "You , eh, recent runaways?"

The Jedi exchanged a fleeting glance. "What makes you say that?" Qui-Gon responded, relaxed posture and open stance bespeaking confidence but not aggression.

The old man cocked his head to one side. "Your togs ain't worn much – so you can't a been out here too long. But you ain't native – don't nobody venture this far past the cities without a blaster." He squinted at them. "Still, you look too healthy to be Hutt or Togo property – you two from the fighting rings out on Paxel?" A low whistle. "That's serious chisszzk, they say."

"We have not seen the fighting rings in person."

"Well, then - you're lucky. Most glads don't make it out alive... nor with everything intact." The old man's assessing stare narrowed. "THe one thing we don't take here among the stones is criminals. You on the lam?"

Obi-Wan smiled thinly. "No more than you are," he responded. "There are rumors of slave-raids here."

"Not rumors," the elder snorted, bitterly. "But we have a hospitality law among the Wanderers. No man is turned away from the fire." He raised a hand, signaling to the others, who swarmed forward, eagerly peering and whispering. "I'm Kerrn; these are the Folk of the Stones. You can tell us more later – the storm's going to break tonight, and that means we need to get to the Wormholes."

Obi-Wan caught his companion's eye, but the older man merely shrugged.

"Come on, you lot, stop gawking. We'll get the whole story out of 'em later." Kerrn shooed his comrades away, flapping hands at them like a farmer rousting fowl from their roosts. "You too, _Glads!_ Time's wastin'. You want yer head blitzed off by lightnin'? No? Then get movin."


	7. Chapter 7

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Beneath the most colossal white monolith, tucked deep in the shadow of its jutting bulk, stood a door – a set of heavy blast panels sealed into the raw mineral, their scuffed and worn paint barely visible. Obi-Wan traced the dim outline of aurebesh letters upon the pock-marked, oxidizing surface.

'Besh-17…? This was a mine shaft," he concluded.

Beside him, Kerrn nodded. "Aye. That's all done now – the planet's stripped. You want ionite nowadays, you got to collect it after a storm – that's our meat and bread. The Urbs won't come out on the plains during the season – soft-skinned cowards that they are. We'll gather and trade… this cycle's been hell and a half. We'll be eating off it for months."

"I see," The young Jedi replied, though he did not, quite. He glanced over the heads of the company at Qui-Gon, who was deep in conversation with a stooped elder of the tribe. The tall man spared him a swift glance, one conveying curiosity but not suspicion, and returned to his earnest interchange with the rag-decked crone.

"Everybody in, let's go, let's go." Kerrn swiped an antique code key across the doors' access plate, and chivvied his followers into the black pit gaping wide behind them. "Somebody light a kriffin' lamp, that's it – come on, you too, strangers. Or you can stay an' let yer blood boil in yer veins."

The Force surged high, validating the grisly warning; Knight and Master slipped through the portals on the heels of their new acquaintances.

* * *

"Now then," Kerrn rambled on, enjoying his role as docent, "This here's the storage corridors. You and your friend can pick a corner to make yer own for the night, just keep the fire down to a minimum – smoke us all out otherwise. We stow the ionite crystals here between trading meets... you ever seen the stuff before?"

When the young Jedi shook his head, indicating a negative, the elder chuckled and pried the lid off a plastimold barrel. "Unique magnetic properties, it has. Industrial applications – supposed to be good for AI – you know: droid brains and whatnot, sensory enhancement prosthetics. Doesn't degenerate like other compounds. Now this," he fished a chunk of blue-white crystal out of the container, "Is low grade. Worthless, doesn't have the same molecular alignment. Pretty, though, eh? The early settlers called it heartstone. Made it up into figurines, jewelry, tokens and such. Said the rock captured a bit of the artist's heart, see?"

"Very whimsical."

Kerrn tossed the glinting rock back into its pile. "Whimsy keeps many a man alive when he's got nought else left, youngster. Don't underestimate imagination. What they would do now – you know most these original folk were slaves, runaways?"

"Yes, I've read much about your planet's history."

"Most of it ain't in writing, my friend. But that's true. These runaways, they would leave their lady loves behind. Or their families. Children. Friends. Brothers. Hoping those would come after, find their own way out of bondage. They would carve these waystones with a… symbol, like. A bit of their heart. For the other one to find later. And leave 'em strewn on the plains."

Obi-Wan listened politely to the tale of ancient superstition. There was a melancholy undercurrent to the tale, one bittersweet. "I wonder if any of them were ever found by the intended recipient," he said, fingering a very small, smooth piece of flawed ionite. Sapphire blue but not as translucent as an Ilum crystal, it was threaded with white veins, and fit easily in the palm of his hand.

"See, there. That maybe never happened. But they say, if you carved enough of those and left 'em behind, you'd eventually empty out yer heart enough so's it didn't hurt no more. Either way, a good thing."

"I see." The young Jedi took the idly wandering conversation by the reins. "How many of the present population are descended from escaped slaves?"

"Oh, most all of us out here," Kerrn readily supplied. "Half went on – drifted into the Core, into the Republic, found another way to give up their liberty. The rest realized what a treasure they had, and stayed."

"But you are a Republic protected territory… you are all citizens now."

"Hmmph." The leader of the Wanderers stuck hands in to his fraying jacket pockets and led the way back to the central cavern, where the community gathered for a late meal. "That don't affect us, thank the stars. An owned man's an owned man. Slavery means more'n one thing, dependin'. We got no great guns fer the Republic, an' neither should you. You think it through. Workin' in the Core, that's a different kinda gladiator ring, not freedom. You look like a smart feller. Stay here." Kerrn nodded gravely. "Stay free."

They ducked beneath a jagged stalactite portcullis and entered the large central hall, where Kerrn's nomadic comrades had efficiently pitched a makeshift camp. The scent of food drifted in the warm air; voices and footsteps echoed deafeningly off the high, marbled ceilings of the cave. "Thank you for your advice," Obi-Wan told his host. "I will remember it."

* * *

The ancient crone shook one bony finger at Qui-Gon, voice quavering with a banked passion. "Paxel, Paxel," she spat. "They're here, you know. Raided other Folk already – they'll come for us next. And mark my words, they'll take the able bodied and kill the weak. That's their way. I'm not afeared… I'll be dead. But you – and that lad you're with – they'll take you back in chains. You know what they do to runaways what get re-captured, don't you?"

"It can't be any worse than the gladiator rings," Qui-Gon reasoned with her.

The old woman cackled derisively. "Where's your imagination, man? It's an _example_ you'd become. Savage, cruel those Paxellians are. You should know it already."

The tall man accepted a bowl of indifferently appetizing stew. "Thank you. I am surprised that any warships were able to penetrate through Heaven's Scythe. My companion and I barely survived the descent ourselves."

"In season, it's calm," she assured him. "We've been left alone thus far. Nobody wants trouble with the Republic. You make it this far, you've escaped. Until now. What'll happen now I don't like to think."

The Jedi master shifted upon his seat, a smoothed boulder set beside the cookfire. "There are rumors that Niffrendi has petitioned the galactic senate for permission to raise a standing army – as protection against raids."

His companion guffawed noisily at this. "You hear a lot, but you don't know much. If those Urbs want protection, you can be sure it isn't about us Folk. They'd not lift a finger to save the Wanderers. Much less raise an army. Likelier they're worried about their own skins. One look at a Paxellian walord and most of 'em'd drop dead on sight."

"Hm." Qui-Gon applied himself to the food, mulling over these scraps of information. The portrait of planetary politics drawn by his new acquaintance was not encouraging.

Obi-Wan appeared a few moments later, squatting upon another stone and warming his hands over the crackling fire.

"So," the aged Wanderer inquired. "You're a bit young for the Rings. I'd have pegged you for the pleasure house auctions. You're lucky," she decided, with a rasping sort of laugh. "Death by rancor's better'n farking a Hutt. Here, boy, eat up afore there's none left." She shoved a bowl into the younger Jedi's hands and scooted away on her own business.

"Charming dinner conversation," Obi-Wan darkly observed.

"Her name is Ayya," the Jedi master supplied. "She spent fifteen years in just such an establishment as she describes before escaping and running to Niffrendi with a group of other slaves. Her companions all died on the journey; she has been here ever since and knows the ins and outs of the nomadic communities better than any."

"Kerrn gave me the tour," Obi-Wan reported in his turn. "They live on the open land for the most part, but use this complex as a shelter and base of operations. They are economically dependent on the cities for everyting but meat – apparently the frequent ion storms produce some sort of rare mineral which they harvest and trade. Ionite? Have you heard of it?"

Qui-Gon frowned. "It may be a tech secret. Certainly it is not listed on the planet's export register."

"Untaxed resources," the young Jedi mused. "Well. That's one mess we've discovered already. Though… do you suppose the raids are related? I can't imagine warrior tribes like the Paxellians having the sophistication to hoard minerals with rare cybernetic applications."

"NO, it does seem unlikely. But it makes me wonder about this standing army the government is so eager to garrison."

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed. "It makes _me_ wonder who buys the ionite from the Niffrendi market. The Trade Federation isn't above making an inside deal."

His companion exhaled slowly. "And _I _wonder how much of this the Council suspected already… certainly our mandate seems to have expanded its parameters."

This did not sit well with his former padawan. "Should we not focus upon the origin of these raids, and alert the Council to our suspicions? Prying further may create more trouble than is needful."

Qui-Gon stretched his legs out. "We cannot alert the Council to _anything_ until the storm has burned itself out. I guarantee communications are blocked; and even then, we have the luxury of patience. I am curious to see one of these purported raids for myself."

"Curiosity killed the gundark, Master."

* * *

Late that night, as the storm raged wantonly overhead, Qui-Gon lay beside the paltry fire provided them for warmth, watching contorted shadows writhe upon the rough hewn roof of their allotted corner in the Wormholes' labyrinth. Obi-Wan sat with back propped against the wall, huddled in his cloak, Force signature deeply convoluted and hands busy at some intricate task. The tall man turned his head to one side, peering curiously across the circle of firelight.

His tiny motion caught unwanted attention, however. Obi-Wan's eyes came up , meeting the Jedi master's gaze, and the spell was broken. The young man tucked away his project in an interior pocket, though Qui-Gon caught a flash of gleaming Vespari steel as the small knife was slipped back into its boot sheath.

"I'm sorry," Obi-Wan murmured. "I did not mean to keep you awake."

Qui-Gon propped his hands behind his head and contemplated the mutable shadow-play upon the pale dome above. "Nor I to distract you."

They were silent for a long moment. the young Knight shifted in place, restless despite the day's demands and the promise of strife yet to come. "This reminds me of the Young. People living in exile, beneath the surface, suspicious of the Republic and life in general. How does this happen?"

"This?" Qui-Gon gently inquired. "Dissolution and isolation are entropies common to all sentient nature. All it takes is time and neglect."

"Time and neglect," Obi-Wan repeated. "Do you ever wonder why the Order's numbers have dwindled over time, while the Republic's boundaries continue to expand? How is that? Should there not be more Jedi now, rather than less?"

"_Should be_ is a treacherous game to play, Obi-Wan. You know this."

"I do. But sometimes, I allow myself to ask whether the neglect is somehow ours. Whether we are too few, and too arrogant. Should mortal beings _claim_ the right to hold a decaying center together?"

Qui-Gon pushed up on his elbows. "That is the danger in ideals, and absolutes. You would do better to focus upon individual good, upon the alleviation of particular suffering, than upon the universal abolition of evil."

Their eyes met briefly across the smoldering bones of the fire.

"Neither you, nor any Jedi, will be able to save the entire galaxy, Obi-Wan. No one person is so burdened, or blessed… even with the Force as his ally. Unless you believe the prophecy of the Chosen One."

"Do you?" the young Knight demanded, a quiet urgency in his voice.

"You know what I think of prophecies," the older man scoffed.

His friend's mouth twisted into a fleeting, insouciant smile. "Except your own, of course."

"Brat."

The once familiar nickname banished the specter of dread. Obi-Wan chuckled, pulled his cloak close about his shoulders, and unexpectedly rolled onto his back, close beside Qui-Gon. Dying embers sparked and popped behind the fire's encircling barricade; the darkness crept near but did not penetrate their restful harbor.

"I have terrible dreams," Obi-Wan abruptly confessed. "Visions."

"I know." The Jedi master reached out and brushed fingertips across his companion's face. "But not tonight." The Force surged between them, unopposed, lending supernal authority to the wistful hope.

And they slept, while the sky outside poured forth unparalleled fury upon the naked plains of Niffrendi.


	8. Chapter 8

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

The Folk of the Stones rose early, trickling up from the cleft in Niffrendi's stone-pocked plains like intrepid foraging insects. Scouting parties of two and three fanned out over the eerily quiet landscape, the world freshly scoured by rain and the stinking aftermath of violent lightning. Heavy satchels and baskets slung over their shoulders and backs, they wandered into the lingering morning mists, stooping periodically to gather the magical dew left by the storm: ionite crystals forged upon heaven's frantic anvil.

Qui-Gon Jinn stood straight and tall, breathing in the acrid, metallic scent of the morning, the scent of ozone and scorched earth mingling with that of aromatic grass and soil. Clouds scudded overhead, but the sky beyond was a peerless violet-blue, inviolate and tranquil. The sun loomed behind a thin veil of condensation, visible as a blurred nimbus beyond the dissipating fog.

Beside him, Obi-Wan knelt and dug in the rain-soaked ground, fingers eagerly wiping away mud and grass to reveal a vein of sparkling granite beneath. "Look," he said, as intent upon his discovery as any youngling from the crèche let loose in the arboretum for the first time. "This natural substrate is already magnetic. When the lightning strikes, it must instantly _melt_ the mineral matrix- and if it cools quickly enough, then, "- he snapped his fingers – "ionite."

"Alchemy," the Jedi master murmured. "The wedding of heaven and earth."

"You are waxing poetical in your old age, Master." The younger man stood, and surveyed the horizons, aura shimmering. "I'll be sure to include that bit in the mission report." He wiped his grimy hands upon his tunic's inner hem.

"I think we should accompany this group to their next trade meet; it may be illuminating."

But Obi-Wan was watching the southeastern ridge with all the tense acuity of a hunting colwar, and a hungry one at that. "There's another probe just beyond that line of stones," he said, blue eyes squinting a little in the overcast glare. "I feel it."

"Patience," the Jedi master counseled. "I say we hold our hand a little longer."

"And I say we bluff," his companion retorted, swaggering off on the direction of the hidden voyeur without waiting for further permission.

The tall man released an aggravated breath, but did not follow. He watched his young friend jog fluidly past the nearest glacial boulder, then disappear behind its looming bulk. For a moment he allowed himself to reflect that working _solo_ had always been preferable to him, when not teaching a padawan. The early days of his own Knighthood had taught him that collegiality was a double-edged blade, a demanding exercise in diplomacy all its own. In fact, he particularly recalled one or two undercover assignments with Tahl…

"Hm," he snorted, turning his back on bittersweet recollection and his brash young comrade at once. Very well. They could approach the problem from two different angles… and _see_ who had the advantage of experience in the matter.

* * *

The probe droid lurked just past the margins of the collecting expedition, hovering further away whenever an enterprising group forayed closer to its observation post. Obi-Wan prowled casually from rock to rock, sheltered in the bluish shadows of the huge white stones, peering at the black sphere as intently as it honed its optics on the dispersed gatherers.

The machine's outdated repulsors whined audibly, and the Force hummed in unison, proclaiming that _this _ was a source of trouble, and potential danger.

The young Jedi flicked his wrist, sending a shower of tumbled stones rolling along the undulating land behind the seeker, but the ruckus provoked no response.

_Thermatics, not motion sensors-._ "Fine then," he muttered, waiting until the meandering vagrants had moved a safe distance away. The probe fluttered after them, keeping within sensor range.

He stepped from behind the shelter of his chosen boulder, and stretched out one hand, palm outward. The droid's repulsor drive whined louder, and then sputtered in frustration as the dark orb was kept suspended immobile in place, then drawn inexorably backward toward its captor.

The thing was outfitted with the most pathetic of defensive programming; concluding that it had encountered some variety of obstacle, the struggling motivators locked the small cannon onto everything and anything, spewing a scattered firework display of plasma bolts in a wide circle.

Obi-Wan ducked as a packet of red energy whizzed over his shoulder and careened into the huge rock slab beyond, but did not loosen his invisible hold on the object. He closed his fist, swept his hand down and flattened his fingers again, smashing the offending machine against the ground and pinning it there. It continued to blast out a small crater around itself – at least until his patience fled and he strangled its efforts with the Force.

"For stars' sake," the young Knight muttered, bending down beside his vanquished foe. The optic plate spun madly to bring him into focus as he lifted the wobbling sphere in both hands and peered down its primitive sensor tube with stern mien.

"Hello there," he addressed the unknown audience at the other end of the thing's relay-feed. "Have you no manners? Covert surveillance is so very _rude."_ A disdainful lift of the brows. "If you've legitimate business with the Folk of these plains, I suggest you conduct it in person. And if you haven't…. then I suggest you find other avenues of villainy, such as the most proximate ring of the Hells, in which to pursue your idle pleasures." He grinned, fiercely, to be sure the _entire_ message was transmitted to its distant receiving station, and then dropped his sputtering captive to the stony earth.

It continued to blast a futile defensive ring into the unyielding ground, and then promptly overloaded, expiring in a shower of sparks and smoke.

"So uncivilized," Obi-Wan grumbled, striding purposefully back to the loose knot of ionite harvesters and the cluster of white stones below this last ridge.

* * *

"Ah ha ha," Kerrn chuckled delightedly. "Good pickins this time 'round. We're set for the long run. Musta been all holy hell up here last night."

Qui-Gon gazed up at the gorgeous violet dome overhead. "And not a trace left behind."

"Oh, she's on her way back," the elder assured him. "Few more cycles out here'n you'll get a feel fer it... yer not seriously reckoning to go Urb, now are ya? They ain't friendly to our sort. And as for the Core, well, if you can find yer way on a ship, then better luck to ye, but it's just runnin back to chains and chips, if you ask me. Say, I even heard they chip citizens on some worlds. Now how's that, d'ye suppose? Folks are damned fools if they let some govermint keep track of em like chattel, and they _pay_ em to do it."

"How do you mean?"

"Oh, taxes an' sich. Out here we call it _tribute_, but the Republic types prefer a euphemism. Like I said, yer better off honest an' free."

"Even at the risk of slave raids?" the tall man objected, mildly.

Kerrn stooped to pry another mineral formation from a lightning blasted trench. "Even so. Not that I ain't worried. Sky's clear."

"Yes." The Jedi master peered upward. Now, while the storm had momentarily abated, would be the best time for a freighter or swift mercenary vessel to make an escape into orbit with its cargo; if there was to be an attack, surely it would be launched soon.

"A feller like you, though… you can take care of yerself. Gladiatin's a mean life, but it ain't a soft one. An' that friend of yers – he's got that baby face on him, but I'll wager he can hold his own too. Otherwise they'd never'a sold him to the rings. You two could maybe show those pirates a thing or two." The aged nomad straightened, joints cracking. "There's a welcome place for you here among us, on that account. We could use warriors. Maybe give us a chance if it comes to fightin'."

"Still," Qui-Gon remarked. "Two against _blasters_ is not very good odds."

Kerrn snorted some colloquial obscenity and strapped his satchel closed. "Nah, but we'll pick up a few extra rifles at the meet. And extra cartridges for what we got already. Take a few of the Paxellian barves with us, I say."

"What of this trading arrangement?" the visitor replied. "Have you no concern about the rate of exchange? If the Urbs are as untrustworthy as you say, surely they are swindlers and cheats."

"Maybe." The elder cast an appraising eye at his companion's wide shoulders and impressive height. "Wonder if you might come along – yer a man that can drive a bargain. The Urbs are cowards, to the man… especially since those lizards showed up ten cycles ago."

"Lizards?"

"Traders. Slat-eyed buggers, from some hellhole planet where slimy gits passes fer real people. Bunch o lisping, wheezing, pot bellied _pizzmahs."_

The Jedi had heard many descriptions of the notorious Nemoidians, and their Trade Federation, but none so unabashedly disparaging – or apt. "I would be happy to accompany you," he offered.

For more reasons than one.

* * *

"It's a dejarik game," Obi-Wan insisted, pace quickening to match his temper. "To win, you must anticipate the opponent's next move – and his next."

The Wanderers had relocated to their original camp amidst the stone sat the river's edge; the Jedi roamed together over the windy grasslands, well out of earshot, their cowls drawn up against the night breeze. Stars beamed down through a glassy-clear sky while a pair of timid moons peeped up over the forested mountains beyond.

Qui-Gon lengthened his own stride, subtly reasserting his lead. "I think it is better likened to a game of sabaac: you must wait for the wild card to appear before you pass or draw."

They crested a ridge and dipped into a low valley where tumbled white stones huddled like grazing nerfs amid a swath of overgrown heather. "There's no harm in forcing your opponent's hand," the younger man persisted. "Observation is useful , but unless we can _pre-empt_ the next strike, we could be here a very long time."

"There are worse fates, Obi-Wan."

Impatient, the latter person leapt to the top of the nearest stone and tipped his face heavenward. The Meruu cluster glowered back at him, uncommunicative.

The tall man joined him on his high perch, folding his arms and tracing the unfamiliar constellations with his gaze. Sickle, scales, leaping fish… they took shape and name at the dictate of whimsy, mapping out a glittering fairy-tale across the wide ecliptic.

"I think we should stay with the Folk here… and meet the threat of a raid head-on. Or else track those probes back to their origin," the young Knight proposed.

"The Folk intend to extend their efforts up into the foothills tomorrow," Qui-Gon informed his companion. "We can remain with them until they finish their gathering. But after that, we should accompany Kerrn to the trade meet. "

Obi-Wan shifted testily, chafing against the older man's authoritative tone, perhaps. But he did not issue any vocal objection, nor champion his own agenda any further.

Aware that the battle had not been won but only deferred, Qui-Gon shifted their mutual focus to a more complicated problem. "There is a Nemoidian presence on-world. My intuition tells me they are somehow implicated."

Obi-Wan frowned over this revelation. "The Trade Federation? They must be the middle-merchant for the ionite… but I doubt they are involved in slave raids." He paused, weighing possibilities. "...Though a resurgence of the Legion in this sector might make them distinctly nervous. Pirate attacks on hyperlanes are one thing, but a Paxellian war-party is far beyond what the Nemoidians can handle."

"As they stand now, at least." Qui-Gon mused.

The paired moons attained the summit of their short climb and stood shyly upon the farthest peak, pallid and trembling.

Obi-Wan nodded, thoughtfully. "And an independent planetary army would not sit well with them either – they are infamous for enforcing mercantile treaties with threat of blockade or embargo. They can't be happy, either way."

"The balance of power in this sector is more precarious than ever," the tall man decided, gravely. "There is more than meets the eye here. We need to get to the bottom of it, and quickly."

And in that regard, at least, they were in perfect concord.


	9. Chapter 9

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

"I am certain one of the grav-sleds could carry you," Qui-Gon solicitously observed, as he helped Ayya labor up the steep incline behind the rest of Kerrn's Folk.

"No need," the elder snorted. "First you ride, and then you lose your strength. So long as I have legs, I'll use 'em." She leaned upon her cane, wobbling as the narrow path dipped into a muddy bend.

"Take my arm," the tall man offered, shooting a swift and _quelling_ glance at his younger comrade, a pre-emptive strike against the unwelcome deployment of wit.

"Oh, bless you, young man," the shawled and shuffling grandmother crooned, happily accepting the proffered assistance as the entire cavalcade made its painstaking way up a narrow foot-trail into the lower hills.

Obi-Wan allowed his bright flare of amusement to flood across the Force's wide currents, a wave of rippling delight breaking upon the Jedi master's tranquil shores. Qui-Gon craned his head over one shoulder again, eyes flashing dangerously at his former protégé, as the latter person paced sedately behind, bringing up the rearguard.

The young Knight projected a vibrant mental image of the Chandrilan High Matriarch at the Festival of Renewing, on the last day of _that_ mission – and was rewarded by the sight of his revered mentor actually stumbling over a protruding tree root in the path.

He wasn't able to completely suppress his quiet chuckle for a solid three minutes, during which time Qui-Gon pointedly and studiedly ignored his very existence.

It was a gorgeous morning, the gloom that had heretofore dominated Niffrendi's skies melting into a glorious radiance, violet peeking through the green canopy overhead, sunlight resplendent upon leaf and mottled earth, flutterwings cavorting in the warm coils of steam rising from the forest floor. The Living Force sang, and the Wanderers trudged doggedly upward, and the young Jedi happily traversed the beaten path behind them, entranced by the wild beauty of the wakening day. In the aftermath of such a storm, it was difficult to attend to the faint keening of danger at the periphery of consciousness- the sense of relief and revitalization swept up all other concerns in its brilliant immediacy.

He drummed fingers absently against his 'saber hilt, unconsciously attuning himself to the crystals chiming within. In such a perpetual _now,_ when the totality of nature seemed to well up from the Force's depths, the whys and wherefores of their presence here faded to inconsequence, the dictates of their assignment to pale in comparison to the concrete wending of the path just underfoot.

That was when he actually laughed aloud, recognizing in his own present mood the unmistakable stamp of his lineage in the Force.

Qui-Gon cast another glance backward, this time one softened by a knowing light, one that radiated outward from eyes to mouth, and into the plenum itself. Obi-Wan smiled back, a bit wryly, accepting that the joke was at his expense this time.

And then…. a sharp _wrenching_, a portent of trouble ahead. Both Jedi halted dead on the spot, bodies tensed and senses straining.

"Just a moment." The tall man deposited Ayya upon his former apprentice's arm, deftly delegating his role to the younger man. "This is Obi-Wan. I'm sure you will find him a versatile conversationalist," he addressed the amiable crone, an instant before he sprang away up the slope toward the summit of this spur, not bothering with the reticulated trail.

"He'd better look out for poison okra," Ayya wheezed, clutching at the young Jedi's elbow as they clambered over a rough patch, "or he'll end with welts and sores all _over_ his hide."

Obi-Wan lifted his brows, on the verge of making some flippant reply, when the shadow passed overhead. The trees obscured his view from this angle, but the speed of the object, and the distinct _whir_ of distant atmospheric drives, were incontrovertible signs.

"Airship," Ayya grunted. "Urb commuters."

But local commuter ships were never outfitted with ion-repulsor hybrid drives; this was a space vessel making a landing descent. The Force tautened with warning, and he breathed out the concomitant tightening in his own chest. _Invaders._

"Maybe," he said aloud, hoping that Qui-Gon had attained the open summit quickly enough to have a good look at the newcomers.

* * *

At the plateau summit, the Folk of the Stones dispersed to harvest a wide field of ionite deposits, loading the trove upon their dilapidated grav-sleds. Obi-Wan hastened to join Qui-Gon at his lookout's post on a high ridge above the first treeline.

"Did you recognize it?" he asked, squinting out over the plains below.

The Jedi master hooked thumbs through his belt, gazing at the northern horizon. "The profile was unfamiliar." He sketched the silhouette of a ship in the mud at their feet, scratching at the damp soil with a stick. "Does that mean anything to you?"

Obi-Wan grimaced. "Thanks to Garen, yes." He looked up at his companion. "It resembles a Paxellian Raptor – that's a scouting ship, like those the Legion once employed as precursors to an invasion."

The tall man exhaled slowly. "I must admit, I harbored grave doubts about the truth of these rumors."

A terse nod. "I still do… there's something not right. But that _is_ a pirate ship, from outside Republic boundaries. And not Hutt or Togorian."

Qui-Gon waved a hand over the crest of the hills. "They headed due north, and descended in that direction – possibly following the trail of those probes."

Obi-Wan pressed his mouth into a thin line. "I'm glad they got my message."

The Jedi master cocked a brow at him. "If so, they're at least two hundred klicks off-target. Odd."

It _was_ inexplicable, given the proximity of the last two recon droids. "Perhaps the storm interfered with their tracking signal."

"Possibly." And yet, neither of them believed it. The Force was disturbed, but thrumming in faint discord, the chaotic nexus of possibilities still churning aimlessly without connection, a disbanded web of dark intentions. The tall man frowned, allowing the conflicting currents to push and pull at his mind, granting no particular guidance. "But something tells me it's not so simple."

"Oh, well, as long as we're to be spared ennui." Obi-Wan folded his arms and glared over the sun-kissed treetops at the smudged line of mountains beyond. "We should keep watch tonight, anyhow."

"Agreed."

Because whether or not the Raptor bore any connection to the probe droids or the raids, there was a new piece on the dejarik board, and it was their opponent's move.

* * *

"What's that you've got there, eh?" Ayya inquired, as dusk settled in about the Wanderer's new campsite, dark gathering about the edges of their chosen clearing while the sky lowered its canopy in ominous folds of rain-laden cloud. "Heartstone?"

Obi-Wan paused his contemplative etching, Vespari knife in one hand, mind unfurled over the entire assembly like vast protective wing. Qui-Gon had stationed himself further out, upon a sheer cliff's summit some hundred meters behind, a vantage point from which he had a panoptic view of the surrounding slopes and the glacial plain below. The Force wove their vigilance into a singularity, binding them into the weft of sky and grass, aching sweep of stone and shivering branch. A vague threat lay over them all, ominous as the promise of cold rain to come. _Patience,_ the young Jedi repeated his private mantra. _Patience._

"Oooh, very lovely," the ancient murmured, sighing over his primitive handiwork. "But what sort of flower is that? Not one that grows here."

He contracted his awareness far enough to muster reply; there was no need to be rude, after all. "Oh…ah, mandrangea blossom." A pulse – the faintest throb of warning – emanating from Qui-Gon and resounding silently in his own blood. Trouble, on the way. He shoved the half-finished carving into his tunic pocket, and uncurled from his sentinel's post atop a flat boulder. "You'd better go back to the others – something's coming."

"Coming?" the old woman protested, eyes narrowing shrewdly. "A raid?"

But he hardly knew himself. "Go," he ordered, urgently. "Tell Kerrn to keep everyone together. We'll handle this."

"But you haven't got blasters!"

"Just go. Please."

Ayya waved her stick at him in affronted compliance, hunching along as hastily as she was able. Danger coiled like sickly smoke now, an impalpable thread of premonition. He tasted ash on his tongue, though the nomads' fire was downwind. A thrill of anticipation flooded his limbs, a cold rallying of present strength and bygone horror, an unwholesome tincture of _then_ and _now. _ He forcibly banished the encroaching past on a long centering breath and sprang away, dashing headlong for the top of the cliff.

* * *

"What is it?"

Qui-Gon silently handed him the compact macro-binoculars, the slightest tightening of muscles about his mouth bespeaking a battle to come.

Obi-Wan adjusted the focus, screening the southern foothills for signs of motion. The optic enhancers locked onto a pair of dark specks ascending the rise along the same path the Wanderers had climbed that morning. He magnified ten, twenty, thirty times, and then hissed audibly.

"Yes," Qui-Gon agreed, grimly.

"But how did they load heavy tanks into a Raptor's cargo bays?" the young Knight wondered aloud. Not that he was an engineering specialist, but his rough, second hand knowledge suggested that the typical Paxellian scout ship was designed for speed and stealth, and that warriors were the preferred contents of its hold.

"And why are they coming from the wrong direction?" the tall man added.

Obi-Wan relinquished the 'nocs and curled one hand about his 'saber hilt. "We can't defend them effectively up here," he decided. "We'll need to cut those tanks off." He squinted down the slopes, straining to see in the swiftly waning twilight. "There – we'll have the high ground and they can't maneuver on that double bend without toppling over the edge."

He was answered by a laughing grunt of admiration. "You've grown used to tactical strikes, I see. And here I thought I trained a _diplomat."_

"Aggressive negotiations, Master."

They slipped down the trail together, under cover of oncoming night.

* * *

The tanks were armored with triple reinforced tritanium, much like the hull of a war-ship. "I recognize those!" Obi-Wan gasped. "There were slagged models all over Melida-Daan... from the original civil wars. They melted in the nuclear weapon blasts – these must be holdovers from some arms dealer out here."

"The Rims have a way of preserving technologies swept away in Core world fads," Qui-Gon agreed. "These must have been purchased on the black market – or else stolen from an old warehouse."

The rumble of the heavy treads drew closer, closer… trees groaned and fell beneath the unwieldy onslaught, crashing onto neighbors and sending avians shrieking upward in droves.

Night fell, blanketing the path in pitch darkness, not a star visible through the heavy cloudcover. "Here they come," Obi-Wan breathed, one boot propped against his chosen weapon. "On three?"

The automated assault vehicles rumbled upward, implacable, the blink of running lights and targeting sensors like so many pairs of leering eyes in the forest's depths. Closer, closer-

"Three," the young Jedi smirked, holding out both hands and levering the massive stone slab out of its resting place with the power of the Force. Qui-Gon extended his hand; strength flowed between them, around them; the rock lifted from its millennium-long resting place and lumbered down the trail, hitting the soft earth with a baritone thud and then rolling drunkenly down the slope.

The foremost tank slammed into it headfirst, sending up an almighty thunder as stone careened into hulking metal. The second monster halted in its tracks, cannon barrel spinning in a wide circle.

The Force flared in bright warning, and the Jedi leapt into the trees' spreading boughs as both machines spat gouts of annihilating fire, streams of liquid flame pouring in long, blast-propelled jets into the forest's vestibule, over bracken and brush. The hushed cathedral floor went up in hellish, lurid fire, the bitter scent of carbonics clotting the air.

Swinging down to avoid a roasting, Knight and master landed between the monstrous droids, 'sabers blazing into life, a line of emerald and sapphire blue springing up in defiance. Crouched among the massive tread struts, they scrambled beneath the huge chassis, seeking the weak point in their armor.

But there was none apparent- and a moment later, the boulder had been shoved aside and sent hurtling down the far slope, where it hewed an inelegant path of destruction all the way to the lonely scree below. The tanks lurched into motion, sending the Jedi desperately rolling to either side.

"Blast shielding!" Obi-Wan panted, springing upright with weapon in hand. There would be no easy carving through such heavy armor.

"The treads," Qui-Gon barked.

They pursued their quarry, sprinting in the wake of the killing machines' inexorable upward crawl, slashing at the tread housings, the flexible conveyor belts, the hard-edged cleats along the tracks' width. Sparks flew and scraps scattered to the floor; the tanks skidded to a grinding standstill.

Obi-Wan leapt, 'saber screaming, to the domed roof of the first tank, even as its partner's cannon swiveled round, planting him in its sights. He sank his blade hilt deep in the seam between hatch and hull, then somersaulted away again as a spout of fire scorched through the air, singeing his cloak. He landed on the downward slope, scrabbling in thorny bracken for a handhold. The burning forest roared around them, thick smoke clawing skyward in sinuous pillars.

"Sith-spit!"

Another jet of flame spewed overhead; Qui-Gon skidded down the crumbling hillside and landed beside him, uttering a filthy Huttese curse. The tanks clanked, shuddered, and then rose, reticulated feet unfolding beneath their bulk.

"_No you don't," _Obi-Wan gritted out, eyes streaming in the toxic effluvia of the fire.

Lightning lanced overhead, followed by deafening thunder. The sky rumbled furiously, opening a black maw to swallow the flames whole.

Pelting rain blurred the chemical fire into a stinking morass of smoke and poisonous fumes. Obi-Wan struggled to his feet, Qui-Gon beside him. "There! At the bend!"

Choking, they leapt wildly for the gap ahead, where the narrow path doubled back upon itself, skirting a sharp precipice. Trees stood starkly unfleshed by consuming tongues of wrath, angry torches casting red shadow upon the devastation. A black miasma billowed in choking clouds where rain and fire warred for dominance.

'Saber blades flashed, carved fierce wounds upon crumbling, curling bark; the Force surged high, desperation flaring wildly in its depths; several flaming pillars keeled slowly, tracing graceful arcs against the torrid black night, and then tumbled crashing across the trail, root balls flinging clods sky-high, collapsing the hillside beneath them, pulling down boulder and soil and flaming bough in endless avalanche.

The tanks were buried, then swept away, plummeting over the imploding edge onto tumbled rock and unforgiving slope, rolling and bouncing against the cliff side, spinning down into the waiting gorge. The Jedi leapt clear of the slide, Force-propelled in long, mirrored dives for the upper branches of a great sequoo. Twin explosions echoed up from the canyon floor as the tanks hit bottom; fire and tumbling rock followed behind the first slide; lightning slammed, unforgiving, into the base of their high refuge.

The _sequoo _ split, base to spire, twinned halves jutting precariously over a sheer drop into nothingness. "Jump!" Qui-Gon commanded, as their supporting limb began a slow, careening descent.

"_What?"_

"Now, Obi-Wan!"

Thunder shook the mountain's base; torrential rain ranted and raged; in slow motion, the entire giant sequoo wrenched free of its last mooring and dropped sickeningly beneath them.

"Ooooh, _not good_-"

They leapt in the same frantic heartbeat – sailed outward, clear of the wreckage and sure disaster, sailing together over the precipice and into thin air -

And then fell, tumbling head over heels, righting themselves in mid-air, hands grasping the others' arms, locking in place, the Force _roaring – howling- _ through bone and blood and sinew, wringing agonized cries from their throats as they pushed against the planet's mass, against gravity, trees rushing up stone wood fire water air sound speed –

The world exploded into blinding dark, into splintering light, and the breath was knocked from their lungs as they smashed through the last line of leafy boughs and tumbled to the hard banks of a riverbed like a pair of felled thranctills.

* * *

Smoke lazily wended overhead; rain fell; the rumbling heavens spun and tilted.

Qui-Gon groaned, checked his ribs for fractures, then cautiously rolled over.

"Obi-Wan."

No answer.

He crawled, painfully, to the brown and cream heap sprawled a short distance away. "Obi-Wan!"

Three shallow, heaving breaths. Rain poured down, rivulets of mud pooling beneath the young man's prone form. A soft moan, a disapproving scowl, and a pair of blue eyes cracked open. The Jedi master exhaled, heart clamoring against his breastbone. Thunder growled overhead, slinking away to its hidden lair.

"Ugh... Qui-Gon?"

The tall man knelt, gently probing for injuries.

"Ow – no –" the young Knight managed to sit, bedraggled and rain-soaked, cloak hood askew over one shoulder, long hair drenched and clinging to his skin in long auburn gnarls.

They breathed together, resting in the Force's sweet lull, heedless of the rain, their disbelieving, semi-stunned relief gradually melting into simple gratitude.

"Well," Obi-Wan managed, at last. "Was that fast enough for you, Master?"

Qui-Gon raised his brows, quizzically.

"…You said you wanted to get to the bottom of this quickly."


	10. Chapter 10

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

"At least the storm has smothered the fire," Obi-Wan observed, peering upward through the roiling banks of smoke and swirling moisture.

Qui-Gon wrung his drenched sleeves out and hauled his companion to his feet. "Nothing broken?"

"My dignity, perhaps?" The younger Jedi grimaced expressively, sucking in a displeased breath. "My everything hurts…. I feel as though I've aged thirty five years in an instant."

"Ha," the subject of this barbed jest replied, gritting his own teeth as he straightened his spine. It was a mercy of the Force that they were in one piece, and a greater mercy that Ben To Li was innumerable parsecs away. "We'll compare bruises later." He gestured to the smoldering wreckage of the tanks, lying in a mangled graveyard of parts and slag a short distance down-stream.

They picked their way across the storm-swollen channel, sopping hoods hanging uselessly down their backs. The rain settled into a sullen drizzle, and the heavens quieted, leaving only the wind's lamentation and the rustling of foliage.

The assault machines were unrecognizable, but they located the charred remnants of one cockpit and painstakingly carved the cabin's hull open with their sabers. Qui-Gon pulled a limp, uniformed corpse from the wreckage, laying the blackened remains out upon the slick bank. "Human," he observed, in surprise.

It was a grisly spectacle; the man's last moment of sheerest terror hung in the Force, a diaphanous shroud.

"Paxellians don't enlist humans," Obi-Wan frowned, pity for the creature that had tried to kill them welling up despite his disgust. He glanced at the other tank's ruins, but its impact had been devastating, the entrails of the assault vehicle scattered like confetti at a festival parade. He exhaled, slowly.

Dawn was hours away. Niffrendi's two moons stared down in appalled silence, faces blanched and expressionless with horror.

"Kerrn will be looking for us," Obi-Wan said, dully.

The cliffside was tinged by reflected silver. Above, the treeline etched a ragged rampart against the purpled sky. "Not until morning. Let's find shelter."

* * *

Ever pragmatic, Qui-Gon swiftly located a dry patch beneath the roots of a dead tree, a place where seasonal erosion had carved out a wide recess lined with fallen leaves. Soon enough the mulch was gathered in a pile and set alight, and most the Jedi's rain-soaked garments laid out within its close circle of warmth.

"Why," Obi-Wan affably groused, "can we not _on occasion_ have these spectacular accidents more in the horizontal dimension?"

The tall man stretched, the fire's heat prickling pleasantly against chilled skin. He rolled aching shoulders, and tipped his head back against the crumbling earthen curve behind them. "We could try pod-racing on Malastare," he suggested, academically.

"Well, that at least involves a _vehicle._ This crash-landing-without-even-a-blasted-_ship _business is for droids."

"There is always the Mandalorian jetpack to consider," Qui-Gon slyly observed. "We've not explored all the possibilities yet."

"Never mind," his companion snorted. "I'll stick with _traditional _ sky-jumping. I learned young, after all."

"Is that an expression of gratitude, at long last?" Qui-Gon queried, humor deepening the creases about his eyes. "It's been six and a half standard since your first informal lesson… and I must say your technique has improved tremendously."

The younger man pretended to harbor a grudge, but his pretense melted like candle wax in the warmth of their homely shelter. His eyes slid sideways, evasive. "I can fall with the best of them," he muttered. "Thanks to expert tutelage."

"You are welcome… it was my honor."

Obi-Wan chafed hands against his bare arms, and rubbed gingerly at one or two spreading bruises. "This is still completely uncivilized," he grumbled, flicking a piece of clinging dirt off his navel. "I'm filing a petition with the Council."

"You would prefer to be stationed as permanent consul on, say…. Chandrila?"

The young Knight blanched. "Ah… _no._" He waved a hand at their filthy hovel. "I'm charmed. Enchanted. Let's do this again sometime."

"If the Force so wills," Qui-Gon placidly responded, settling in comfortably for a long wait.

* * *

Daybreak was still an hour away when he woke, every muscle cramped and sore in the aftermath of their precipitous descent earlier, time and the cold conspiring to make the effects more vibrantly present after the fact.. Qui-Gon reflected that he too may as well have aged thirty five years in an instant – and he didn't have the decades to spare.

"Hells' moons," he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably and rubbing at a crick in his neck. The fire was reduced to embers; he breathed life back into its heart and stacked more tinder upon the wavering flame thus engendered. Ironically, Obi-Wan slept on undisturbed, despite his vocal protestations against the uncivilized venue; curled on his less-bruised side, he slumbered peacefully beside the guttering tongues of flame, flickering veils of gold and ochre picking out the planes of his face, the dip of bone and muscle on shoulder and torso, the pale highlights in his too-long hair, the glint of chestnut scruff along his jaw – and just visible beneath one bent arm, the tiny, pale scar running from collarbone to belly, the indelible brand of a difficult path to the present moment: Xanatos, Syfo Dyas, Dooku, Melida-Daan – all these forever imprinted upon the young Jedi's flesh in a single calligraphic stroke of pain.

Or wisdom. One was the same as the other, according to the sages – at least, when purified in the Force's smelting furnace.

Much had changed, for the Force and the balance of all things, was forever in motion. In six months, the time since their reunion and Obi-Wan's Knighting, he had come to know his former student anew, to see hints of that soul he had always nurtured as potential greatness come now into seedling growth, its unfurling leaves as wonderful and unexpected as any new life bursting forth from unlikely germ. Opinion and insight bloomed freely, not tethered to the trellis of his own mind; brash enthusiasm had been transmuted, into a banked ferocity of spirit, one not easily provoked, nor easily cowed; the young man's heart, worn so preciously, vulnerably open upon the sleeve, was now encircled by a stalwart citadel of word and gesture, deflective wit and sarcasm. Behind those rarely breached walls, even he was seldom now allowed. Privacy had superceded guidance as the young Jedi's foremost need, and the older man strove to respect this – but with that subtle sundering of their worlds, there sometimes came a bittersweet and forbidden nostalgia.

The darkened, alien world was invisible beyond the luminous sphere of their refuge; here they were cocooned in a microcosm without distinct time or place, a bubble like the warped dimensions of hyperspace, in which he could easily imagine a braid still dangling behind his companion's ear, or a beloved voice chiding him to keep better watch over the last and dearest of his line.

"Tahl," he breathed, without acrimony or futile longing. In the soft radiance of this blessed cave, he could all but feel her presence, within the flame's leaping heart or ghosting lightly over their two faces. His eyes shifted to the pile of clothing and gear laid out to dry; among the equipment and boots, belts and tabards, sashes and tunics, he had earlier glimpsed a small azure stone upon which was engraved a delicate flower. The carving had caught his eye, stirring some unbidden pathos within him: the blossom was pierced by a slender flame, one surmounted by two stylized wings, the Order's most enduring symbolic glyph. The meaning of the mandrangea bloom was far more esoteric – and obviously personal. He had made no remark upon it, and would not in future, though the thing's very existence reminded him that the child he had raised from boy to man - uncertain padawan to promising Knight - had a guarded inner depth, an abyss plumbed perhaps only by the Force itself, or those rare few admitted to its most genuine depths of affection.

And with a melancholic pang, he wondered articulately for the first time whether he was truly counted among those few – or whether he in the ultimate reckoning _could_ be. They were bound together by the sacred oath of teacher and learner, grafted into each other's destiny as one generation to the next… but there was more, more that he had always taken for granted while authority reigned supreme and undisputed between them. He discovered a seed of doubt where presumption had hitherto flourished unimpeded.

There was, after all, a profound difference between _master_ and _friend._

He was on the point of waking his companion, if only to break the unwelcome spell of introspection – when a subtle stirring in the universal energy called him back to the present moment without their humble sanctuary. He crept forward to the edge of the sheltering root-ball and peered into the inky night, sight and hearing coursing along invisible currents.

And there – hovering above the destroyed tanks, the oval gleam of yet another seeker droid. It burbled, spun in place, and then retreated in a southerly direction, hastening away with news of the assailants' demise.

"What was that?" Obi-Wan murmured, voice hoarse with interrupted sleep, but aura shimmering with wary alertness.

"A messenger," the Jedi master answered, settling back on his haunches. "That will raise uncomfortable questions."

The young Knight stretched, grating out some highly _idiomatic_ Twi'Lek phrase and reaching for his begrimed clothing.

"It's nearly dawn – we may as well set out."

Within minutes, the tiny fire had been stamped out and its ashes strewn in a wide circle. The Jedi melted into the pale gloaming, into the forest's reverent hush.

* * *

They reached the high summit just after dawn, tunics and trousers stained and stiff, sporting a dozen new abrasions and sore spots apiece, and with hair lamentably tangled and matted – but miraculously alive, at least from Kerrn's point of view.

"I'll be vaped! Thought you two was lost or dead, for sure!" the Wanderer's leader exclaimed, beaming upon the battle-weary pair as they emerged into the campfire circle. just as breakfast was being dished out. "All hells broke loose here last night – raging forest fire.. musta've been lightnin'."

"There were two assault tanks headed for this position." Qui-Gon disabused him of his innocent notion in one fell swoop. "A raiding party, I would say. The Folk need to move to a more secure location.. perhaps the Wormholes?"

Kerrn's wrinkled face fell. "Raiders? Then… what happened to 'em?" he squinted suspiciously at the escaped gladiators, rheumy eyes glittering.

"There was an avalanche on the southern slopes," Obi-Wan supplied, helpfully. "The strom must have loosened a mudslide. And lightning struck a sequoo – the tanks were swept down into the river canyon."

"Well, I'll be double vaped. That 's a piece of luck. Glad you two squirreled yer ways out of it. Smart fellers, staying out of the line of fire like that."

Qui-Gon bowed, curtly. "All the same, your people are in danger. I suggest regrouping under the stones… there is sure to be a second wave, or at least a recon unit.."

Kerrn ran one gnarled hand over his whiskered chin. "All right," he mused, a calculating air about him. "We'll head down to the plains – gotta get this harvest to the traders afore the next ion storm hits. Urbs won't do nothing by way of business with us when the Scythe's a swingin."

He excused himself, striding away and barking orders at his ragtag band, pointing and gesticulating at the tarps covering the ionite haul.

"One of us will need to stay with them," Obi-Wan murmured, drawing the older Jedi a few paces away. "A second attack seems inevitable."

"I agree. You remain here while I investigate the situation in the capitol."

The young Knight planted his feet shoulders' width apart. "The trading arrangement seems less pressing than determining the origin of these attacks. We've still not looked into the relay station in the hills. It would be a short trip from here, if we took one of their grav-bikes up." He glanced at the Wanderers' small fleet of rusting vehicles. "We need to know who sent those probes.. and those tanks."

Qui-Gon crossed his arms, expression hardening. "You yourself said the Folk should not be left unprotected."

"You could stay with them."

This direct challenge to his authority – or at least, seniority - rankled. The tall man drew in a measured breath, clamping down upon his flare of annoyance. "_I _ will be in the city, filling our mandate on this mission."

Now Obi-Wan bristled in his turn, flushing a little. "This is important, Qui-Gon. I _feel _ it. Those tanks – those probes – something is amiss."

"There are Paxellian scouts within a hundred klicks," the Jedi master reminded him. "We don't have time to waste on _disputes._ I will escort the trading party, and investigate the local government's involvement with the Trade Federation. You stay here… and do as you see fit."

The concession was little more than an ultimatum. _Abandon post if you will,_ _but do not ask me to violate the dictate of intuition._

They stood locked in resentful opposition for another span of heartbeats, obstinacy and intuition locked in a stalemate of equal strengths. The Force churned uneasily, protesting the discordant overtones in its boundless harmony.

Qui-Gon outranked his former student; and this, in the end, settled the decision in his favor, though neither rested content with the outcome. Obi-Wan offered him a tight-lipped bow, yielding but not surrendering, and he in turn nodded once and stalked away to gently bully the smaller trading group into an early departure.

* * *

"I need to borrow a grav-bike."

The grizzled Wanderer in charge of the vehicles stared at him. "Kriff off, youngster – you're welcome round the fire but you don't run the show. Everyone here has a job – yers aint to do with these bikes."

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and dropped the imperious manner. "Forgive me – I meant, I thought I saw ionite higher on the slope. When my friend and I first arrived.. I didn't realize at the time that it was of value."

This ploy proved more effective. "How long you think you'd be? Word is, we're moving out – back to the Holes."

"I'll meet you back there," the young Jedi promised, infusing his tone with what he hoped was earnest enthusiasm.

The man nodded, regarding him warily for along minute, and then rummaged in a pouch and produced the ignition cylinder for one of the modified swoops. "_Don't_ wreck 'er – this is community property, not some gladiatin' ring prop job."

"I understand; thank you."

He swung one leg over the questionably functional conveyance and activated the repulsors, wobbling a bit at first as he felt for the machine's balance. The compensators were badly aligned, giving the bike a slight left-hand tilt, but that could not be helped. "I'll be as quick as I can," he promised, revving the bike uphill through the trees, relying on memory and instinct to guide him back to the coordinates he had gleaned from the first probe droid's motivator circuits.

Qui-Gon heard the swoop's drives whine into a fading high note on the cold air - and flipped his cloak hood over his face, long strides carrying him downhill and away on his own self-appointed task.


	11. Chapter 11

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

The grav bike was, not to put too fine a point upon it, a piece of festering bantha chiszzk.

Obi-Wan vexedly slammed the intake regulator panel shut for the _third_ time, reflecting bitterly that he might have made better time scaling the entire mountain along its sheer southern face without a cable. The simulator pods used to train Temple initiates in basic ship-handling skills had a better overall average performance – and they went exactly _nowhere._

He breathed away the urgent impulse to deliver a swift kick of frustration to his rickety mount, and then straddled the seat again, gingerly testing the repulsors and eyeing the simple console indicators warily. The swoop rose a half-meter off the ground, evened out, and stuttered into something resembling the clean _thrum _of compact magneto drives. He let out the throttle, eased the laboring vehicle uphill, and whizzed away again, leaving a puddle of sticky lubricant and a whirling flutter of dead leaves in his wake.

* * *

Kerrn and his hand-picked comrades – a half dozen of the Folk's older and more weather beaten members – made excellent time across the plains. The Wanderers kept a single repulsor tractor in good condition, its workaday heavyweight drives plugging steadfastly along as it hauled a small convoy of six laden palettes behind, a man sitting astride the tarped heaps of ionite with a loaded blaster rifle across his knees.

The Jedi master, standing beside Kerrn as the old man piloted the cab, remarked upon the sentries. "Do you encounter potential thieves often?"

Kerrn shook his head. "Nah… three, four cycles back we had trouble with the Folk of the Marsh. Tried to hijack us on the way to the city – can't blame em, there's lean livin' out thatta way, but I'm not givin' up what's ours to save others as is too stupid to move on. Urbs don't hassle us… we gotta fine arrangement, and if they stole from one of us tribes, the rest'd never set foot in trader's arena agin – we've got 'em by the asteroids."

Qui-Gon mulled this over. "I wonder that they don't employ droid gatherers, to harvest their own ionite."

"What?" A snort. "Tried it when I was younger. Revolt's what happened. We Folk outnumber 'em ten to one, did you know it? This planet's got _one_ major settlement outside of us. They about spoiled their pants when the Folk laid siege – thought they were gone fer."

The Jedi master concealed his astonishment. "I have never heard the tale." Indeed, there was no record of it in the Archives database; this was a missing piece of planetary history.

"You wouldn'ta," the Wanderer grunted. "Cowards never reported nothing, nor called in Republic help. They scrapped their vaping droids and we went back to business as usual."

"I see." Naturally, the Niffrendi planetary council would not wish the galactic authorities to discover their illegal trading deal… for surely ionite exports would be heavily taxed, and attract corporate interests with deep pockets and strong-arm tactics, not to mention Hutt mobsters and Togorian pirates. The treasure here was only valuable while it remained relatively secret.

"Yeah. I just got a bad feelin' these lizard barves are whisperin in their ears agin… I don't trust em. Give me the heebie-jeebies."

Qui-Gon smiled tightly, wondering where in all this conflicting knot of motives and deception the purported slave raids fit in… and what the fallout of this mission might be.

For the secret was out; all that remained was to see who would profit by its discovery.

* * *

When the grav bike expired for the fourth time, Obi-Wan consigned it to the nine hells in richly inventive language and leaned its over-heating bulk against a convenient jutting slab. At this altitude, the trees were sparsely scattered, and the landscape a mass of weather-smoothed rock and shale. The air was thinner, too – he felt the burn deep in his lungs as his body adjusted to the low pressure.

He grimaced over the sizzling, stinking compressor array and ran both hands through his hair, wishing ruefully for a decent toolkit, or –even better – a cheerful tech fanatic like Garen Muln to do the dirty and thankless work for him. But such was not to be, and he was after all not far from the high summit where the relay station must be located.

He left the useless bike to its own devices and scrambled up the jumbled slope of rock at the foot of the mountain's last sheer sweeping cliff-face. From here, the domed roof and slender spire of a pulse-wave transmitter station could be seen peeking over the stark edge of white granite. The unit looked remarkably _permanent_ for something erected by transient raiders, and his spine thrilled with sudden, unpleasant intuition.

One well-aimed shot with his cable launcher, and his line moored its grappling end in a cleft far overhead. A swift scan of his surroundings – one revealing nothing amiss, and no sentient presence at all – and he fluidly ascended the rockface, pulling himself over its lip and retracting the liquid cable in one graceful motion.

There, humming faintly, smugly omniscient, stood the comm center – a guard post surmounted by the transmittor beacon and a pair of cylindrical generator cells. The door was sealed fast against intruders and plastered with bold signage warning potential trespassers to desist, on pain of "severe prosecution."

Which was, if you considered it from a certain point of view, nothing short of an invitation.

* * *

The trade meet was held just inside the main city's gates – a makeshift agora of cracked duracrete pavers fronted a modern block-style building. Kerrn's group unloaded their wares under the portico of this simple structure, shifting restlessly foot to foot as they awaited their contact. It was abundantly clear that the relatively crowded environs – even of this outpost town – unnerved the Folk badly. Two or three quietly lit stinking bacci sticks and took long drags upon them, sending up acrid trails of blue smoke.

They waited a scant quarter hour before a portly government officer, in an ill-fitting short coat cut in the Corellian style, emerged from the main entrance. He was flanked by a pair of nondescript aides and strikingly pale Nemoidian. The Trade Federation delegate was of low rank, Qui-Gon shrewdly inferred, for his absurd hat was less elaborate and almost stunted by comparison to others the Jedi master had seen.

"Excellent, excellent," the Niffrendi trade officer wheezed, shaking hands with an unenthusiastic Kerrn and then rubbing his fingers together in anticipatory greed. "What have you brought us today?"

Kernn's comrades lifted the tarps covering their glittering merchandise.

"Bumper crop," the leader grunted. "Same price's last time. We'll weigh it together."

But the Nemoidian slunk forward, nictitating membranes shuttering his glassy eyes. "A surplus is no occasion to demand high rates of compensation," he reasoned, in his oily voice. "If there is an excess of product, then we could do business with other tribes, surely."

Kerrn hunched his shoulders in vexation. "Yer already rippin' us off, flat-face. You want this stuff, you pay fer it. We got mouths to feed, and the cold season's comin'"

The planetary native wriggled uncomfortably, gaze never leaving the reptilian's hunched form. "Ah yes, of course – your efforts are invaluable to the common good here on Niffrendi – we desire all our citizens to have a fair share in our prosperity, but, ah, certain extraneous expenses have arisen with regard to _shipping_ costs, and, uh…"

Qui-Gon stepped forward, casually placing himself between the hedging officials and the Wanderers. "Shipping?" he inquired, innocent tone edged with steel. "Perhaps it is time the Folk struck a bargain with an independent contractor." He stared down the goggling Nemoidian and then nodded to Kerrn. "Let's go."

"Wait! Wait!" the tall reptilian lisped. "Surely we can reach a compromise."

"And who the hell do you think you are?" the Niffrendi official barked in outrage.

The tall man hesitated fractionally as he turned away, signaling to the assembled nomads to replace the tarps and power up the grav-sleds. "A visitor."

The Trade Federation envoy mined forward, bowing insincerely. "A see you are a man with a keen eye for profit… perhaps a private conference? In my office?"

Qui-Gon's eyes narrowed, appraisingly. "Wait here," he told Kerrn. "I'll return shortly."

* * *

The magneto lock was no match for the Force, nor for the sabotage skills Obi-Wan had picked up at the enormous feet of Jettster Dexter, whose magnanimity and encyclopedic knowledge were exceeded only by the questionable nature of his many former careers. The young Jedi was inside the comm station and hacking into its simple control system within minutes, pulling up transmission records and geographical surveys on the mainframe holo-display.

A line appeared between his brows as he fitted the pieces together. Seven connected relay stations were scattered over this main continent, all linked to a satellite processor and to a network of remotely programmable probe units, the locations of which were tracked by a separate nav-computer. He watched the moving dots fan out idly over a wide terrain, feedback signals indicating continuous data transmission to the central hub.

It was all far, far too complex and well established to have been erected by the Legion, which was at best a savage raiding alliance. Not only that, but the manufacturer's sigil on the inside access hatches was _Techno Union._ The galaxy's foremost tech experts would never do business with disreputable fringe groups like Paxel.

One hand clenched 'round his saber's hilt as he drew the obvious conclusion. "Hells' moons."

A deep inhalation, let out slowly. Surveillance systems used to monitor planetary citizenry were, of course, a violation of Galactic federal law – but he was not so naïve as to suppose this statute was widely observed. And this network might have a more innocuous purpose than those immediately suggested by his cynical imagination. With the majority of the population wandering freely over vast, unsettled territory, there ought – he supposed – to be some sort of communications established. And the Folk were roundly contemptuous of the government that technically protected them. They would never willingly cooperate with a reporting and census system.

The Force twisted fretfully about him, sure indication that his ad hoc justification was far from the mark.

"Blast it." Still, he had no evidence of outright malice. And what motive could there be for attacking the nomadic groups, when they provided a critical economic service?

He wired his commlink into the beacon's transponder panel, and routed the transmission to Qui-Gon's device.

* * *

"Excuse me a moment," the tall man murmured, lifting his brows at the unexpected ping from his commlink. "A business associate of mine."

The Nemoidian lingered on the threshold of his spacious private office, clearly intent on eavesdropping.

Qui-Gon thumbed the transmit button. "Have you closed the deal?" he asked, before Obi-Wan could get a compromising word in edgewise.

There was a fractional hesitation on the other end of the link, but the young Jedi instantly covered his confusion. "There is a complication," came the smooth reply. "The _supplier_ we discussed earlier appears to be a front organization for an inside trader."

A long moment as the Jedi master absorbed and de-coded this message. "I see. Are you withdrawing our offer?"

The Force rippled faintly with mischief. "I think we should drive a hard bargain and look for another buyer," Obi-Wan retorted, exuding palpable confidence.

Qui-Gon cast a significant glance at the Trade Federation underling, who was still eagerly ogling him from the open doorway. "No," he ordered. "I've found a possible partner corporation… based on Cato Nemoidia."

Another tiny faltering in the rhythm of their exchange; he could feel the younger man's surprise clearly, despite the distance. "I see."

"I'll let you know whether we can come to a suitable arrangement," Qui-Gon finished, willing his counterpart to understand the situation's complexity. "We'll speak again soon," he added, reinforcing the unspoken mandate.

* * *

"Well, that was helpful," Obi-Wan muttered, shoving his comm unit back in a belt pouch. He folded his arms irritably and considered the luminous display still flickering in mid-air over the projector plate. The moving specks of probe droids idly circled upon the map, a swarm of lazy glowmoths smugly keeping their own secrets. He sighed, resigning himself to an enforced wait, a trickle of undefined but certain apprehension descending his spine.

Wanderers, Urbs, Paxellians, Techno Union… and now the Trade Federation. The dejarik board was growing rather overcrowded with new arrivals to the arena. His every instinct needled him to _act,_ to get a move on….

But patience was the Jedi way, was it not?


	12. Chapter 12

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 12**

"Please, please, let us become better acquainted," the lisping Nemoidian suggested, waving the Jedi master into his private salon and snapping webbed fingers at the protocol unit standing dutifully in one corner. The droid- fitted with the standard insectoid model head favored by non-humanoid species – shuffled to a sideboard and fetched a tray with glasses and a carafe.

Qui-Gon accepted the traditional Nemoidian hospitality offering, sipping cautiously at the sweetened _kom'chubba_ tea, a tincture of fermented fungus popular among Cato Nemoidia's hypochondriac upper classes. The brew was notoriously healthful, and quite an acquired taste for foreigners.

The reptilian sat in his molded chair, sumptuous but frayed robes tucked primly about his knobbled knees. "It is not often that we encounter fellow business men here on Niffrendi… or anywhere in this sector," he wheezed.

The Trade Federation doubtless counted on that fact. Qui-Gon nodded, amiably. "I'm just passing through. Rumor on the market has it there is money to be made out here."

The Nemoidian spread his pudgy hands. "Ah, an entrepreneurial spirit. Unfortunately the only viable market out here is already _cornered._ My franchise provides shipping services for the planet's only valuable export."

The tall man set his galss down and examined his own hands, abstractedly. "I don't recall seeing _any_ exports on the planetary register."

This provoked a conspiratorial chuckle, a wet and hiccupping sound issuing from the other's fleshy throat. "Bookkeeping details.. I am not in the accounting department, if you take my meaning."

"I do." The Jedi master nodded, offering his interlocutor a thin smile. "So. Suppose I was interested in … obtaining a share of this cornered market. Myself and my associates. What opportunities might present themselves?"

The Nemoidian's glazed eyes shifted. "We are always looking to hire talent at the ground floor. I assure you, theTrade Federation rewards initiative in our independent contractors. If you are interested, I suggest submitting an application. I can arrange an interview, perhaps, when this last purchase goes up to orbit?… That is, if you can persuade your friends to sell low."

Qui-Gon kicked one booted foot up upon the greedy merchant's desk. "I recommend that you buy _high…_ this particular supplier is not one you wish to alienate."

This had the reptilian's attention. "You know something about their ionite source?"

"Let's just say they have connections."

"Well… I see…in that case… we can arrange a mutually satisfactory price. Perhaps you would care to submit your qualifications?" A datachit was pressed into Qui-Gon's hand by the attendant droid. "Fill out the application forms in triplicate with documentation and transmit to the imbedded code. I look forward to learning more about you."

The feeling was mutual, both in its intensity and degree of suspicion. They stood, bowed stiffly to one another, and then parted ways.

When the tall man reappeared on the arcade, Kerrn was impatiently pacing.

"Well? D'jya talk sense into that slimy wart? Or we leavin'?"

"They will pay a fair price this time. How long will you and your people need to purchase supplies in the city?"

The elder made some swift private calculation. "Say, four standard hours. We'll take our leave afore sundown. Don't pay to be out late on the plains – more rain's on the way, and odd happenins with them pirate raids."

"Odd indeed." The Jedi Master watched the Folk unload their cargo for appraisal again, wondering just how very odd the aforementioned _happenings_ might be.

* * *

"Well, I suppose the tracking equipment might be used to monitor their _inventory,"_ Obi-Wan admitted, commlink grasped loosely in one hand while his other still idly manipulated the database's interactive display. "Especially since they seem to be using the Folk as free labor."

"Highly underpaid labor, at least," Qui-Gon concurred.

"And this _is_ older technology – they must have set up the relay system decades ago, when the mines went dry and they began relying on nomadic groups as gatherers."

"It seems likely. I think you have your explanation – there is little more to be learned from the surveillance system. You should turn your attention to that Raptor we saw descending. Another raid may be planned soon."

The younger Jedi scrolled through another data-field, squinting at the shimmering blue lines and columns. He frowned. "I feel it, too," he replied, the stirring of premonition beneath his ribs a constant source of unease now.. and yet….

"What is it?" Qui-Gon's voice was clipped by static, bereft of its characteristic patience.

"I'm not finished here," the young Knight decided, the Force chiming in affirmation.

There was a tense silence on the other end of the link. "Obi-Wan. I need to pursue this Trade Federation trail to its source; that leaves you to ascertain what the Paxellian scout ship is doing here. If there is a danger to the nomadic community brewing, it is our duty to prevent it."

The needless reminder rankled. Obi-Wan set the comm link down on the console, folding both arms tight against his chest and indulging in an outward show of exasperation made acceptable by the voice-only mode of this transmission.

Unfortunately, the Jedi master did not need a hologram to _see_ it. "This is not an academic debate," he growled. "Lives are at stake."

His former student stood, galvanizing fire surging through his veins. "I am _well_ acquainted with _real_ risk situations," he snarled, alarmed by his own unexpected flare of temper. _Calm. Think. Do not react like a youngling._

"As am I," the older man reminded him, curtly. "I was not aware this was a _contest_ of relative familiarity."

_Contest._ Obi-Wan shut his mouth, abruptly aware that his jaw was agape like the hypothetically posited youngling he did not wish to emulate. Since when did a simple difference of opinion constitute an open challenge, an invitation to hostility?

"With respect," he tried again –

But the tall man cut across his tentative effort at negotiation with a tight refusal to listen. "Save the diplomacy for another occasion," he advised.

So they _were_ locked in a contest- one of wills, as they had so often been before, the obduracy of youth pitted against the equally obstreperous habits of age. They could hear – _feel_ – each other's long, centering breaths. The Force expanded and contracted, yoked to their conflict, responsive yet somehow immutable.

"I will not _order_ you to seek out the Paxellian ahip," Qui-Gon managed at last, a grudging concession. "But I am _strongly counseling_ you to move on."

Which was an unfair tactic. Obi-Wan dropped his gaze, unsettled by this unfamiliar battleground, in which his eventual capitulation was not, any longer, inevitable. "I'm sorry, Qui-Gon," he said, at long last. "I must do what the Force shows me."

_Over your head, if need be._

The older man's slow exhalation was audible over the link. "I see." There was mingled triumph and defeat in the words, pride and chagrin, admiration and resentment.

And fear.

Obi-Wan clenched his jaw, reeling in that sick-making realization. Fear. "Master," he began.

"No," Qui-Gon cut him off, before rapprochement could be made. "That is your prerogative. May the Force be with you."

The link was severed.

"But I –" _still want your guidance. When it is needed. _ "Blast it!"

If this was _anything_ like having a padawan, he was never setting foot down that confounded and confounding path. There was no _point_ in working with someone who never _listened, _who subtly, incessantly impugned one's _capability_, who always impulsively hared off on whatever immediate intuition might present itself in the Force-forsaken present moment, whose self-assurance took on the proportions of a sub-developed culture's oracular deity–

_Stop._ Stop.

He released the flood of difficult emotion, clamping down with every iota of control he could muster… He was a Jedi, and he would do his _duty_ first, personal feelings be damned. Or at least, deferred indefinitely.

He was more than capable, in that regard.

* * *

Qui-Gon craved the tranquility of meditation, but duty called. He thrust his commlink back in its belt pouch, threw his shoulders back and strode down the echoing interior corridor with head high.

_Partnership_ was a perilous thing, one he had avoided most his career. Teaching _flowed_ with the Living Force, obedient to its own laws, coursing along a sinuous bed formed and smoothed by generation after generation, a perpetually evolving heritage. To _guide, _ to _nurture, _ to succour pathetic life forms… this he understood. His pace quickened, as a pang of self-knowledge illumined his introspective murk. He had never been so adept at _cooperation, _ at _concession. _ Infamous all his long career – and before, if he cared to revisit the painful memories of his own apprenticeship – for rebellion, for headstrong insistence on his own point of view, for maverick tendencies and indocility to Council decrees, he had made of his own name a byword among generations of Temple initiates, and not a few of his peers.

_But I serve the Force. Above all else._

He released a bitter breath of laughter. That sentiment presented a quite different façade when viewed from the other side. Obi-Wan's _arrogance_ mocked him, mirrored his own, smacked of fate's irony. With a hearty unvoiced curse, he swept down the passage and into the city's main thoroughfares, where the Wanderers haggled and bargained with shopkeepers and suppliers, stocking their sleds with provisions for the oncoming winter.

But however far he walked, he could not outpace the Force's stern admonition, nor that elusive specter of anxiety that haunted his steps. For that which would not be commanded could not be protected, either.

And therein lay his deepest fear – for how could he atone for the past, or safeguard the brilliance he foresaw in the future, in that rarely-granted glimpse of destiny, if he were debarred from that role most integral to his heart?

" Hells _take_ it, Obi-Wan."

* * *

An hour later, the younger Jedi felt the initial stirrings of corrosive doubt; what if Qui-Gon _was _ right? Who was he, Obi-Wan, to tell a master of such superior experience and wisdom that his perception of the Force's will was skewed, or lacking? Was not willful pride a broad and seductive path to the Dark?

And what had he found here, after all? Nothing.

A pathetic prize for which to barter the respect and affection of one to whom he owed much, from whom he still hoped for …what? Had it not been his own idea to partner with his former master, to place himself within the lamplight of Qui-Gon's warm radiance in the Force? Had he not specifically craved what wisdom the maverick had to bequeath, what comradeship he so generously offered?

He wanted, and he did not want; he revered, and he resented. A dull ache formed itself beneath his sternum, a contracting of vital breath. _I'm trying, Force help me – even if there is no try._

_Blast it._

Frustrated, as he had not been since before his apprenticeship – when his mentality had been a sea of answers waiting for their proper questions, platitudes without context, innocent belief not yet forged iron hard by suffering and wisdom. There was something to be said for _obedience _ to a concrete authority in the end – for the subtle prompting of the Force could be a will-o-wisp lantern forever elusively flitting between shadow and light, past and present, potential and actual.

He exhaled, slowly. _Show me._ Make this worth it.

The blinking panels glimmered, keeping silent vigil. The translucent holo-display rotated slowly in mid-air, The Force rippled, as faint as the last luminous echo of that tantalizing beacon… and opened a tiny aperture in the bland finality of his perspective, a window into a whole new vista.

Oh. Yes. _Oh no._

He sat again, fingers nimbly flying over the input screens, instinct now in the lead, a baying hound running down its quarry, heedless of obstacle or distance, sense and intellect dashing madly behind/ New displays sprang up over the projector, inventories and tracking feeds cross-referenced and then eliminated one by one until…

He stared at the string of encrypted signals, unable to decipher them but not needing to do so. A location glimmered on the coordinate overlay; a series of independent programming commands relayed to multiple roving units with one-way transponders.

Tanks. Like those they had fought upon the hills' lower reaches, only in much greater numbers, and possibly automated rather than piloted. Originating not from the estimated position of the Paxellian raiding party, but from the capitol itself.

Headed directly for the Wormholes.

He was out the door and sprinting for the cliffside in the next breath, doubts obliterated and washed away in the new and thundering tide of certainty. The Folk were facing an imminent attack – one they had no hope of withstanding.


	13. Chapter 13

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Obi-Wan rappelled down the cliff face in a single _controlled_ fall, boots rousing a tiny cloud of dust where he landed. He flicked his cable's grappling end loose from its mooring with the Force and retraced it in a long, snaking coil of urgency. Three swift bounds over the intervening boulders, a short sprint to the stone where he had propped the asthmatic grav-bike, and –

He skidded to a halt, a frown contracting his brows.

"Not good." _Confound_ it. Why must there always be complications?

Or in this case, a lumbering niffenbear, one of the more spectacular features of the planet's unique fauna. The beast – a hulking brute every bit as huge as a small bantha, and endowed with half-meter long scimitar curved claws upon its forepaws, was systematically disassembling the unfortunate swoop, disemboweling it with all the enthusiasm one would expect of a hungry forager that had stumbled upon an outsized bezzil hive.

Lubricant dripped from the machine's split tanks; the niffenbear licked tentatively at this amber drizzle, then snuffled in astonished repugnance, growling a little at the honey's foul taste and aroma.

Its small beady eyes shifted to the intruder, and it emitted another warning thrum deep in its waggling throat.

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, making no sudden moves that might be interpreted as hostile.

The bear reared up, baring sharp teeth, and waving the outlandish claws about its body, a display of strength and size intended to intimidate competitors.

It would have been more prudent to retreat, of course, but – "I don't think so. You owe me one, my friend." The young Jedi raised one hand, calling upon the Force's omnipresent power, and reached for the animal's dim mind.

* * *

Qui-Gon submitted the application from a public com terminal, styling himself Quonn - a moniker bestowed upon him _many_ years ago during a lengthy undercover mission and never fully retired - and uploaded bogus identity documents to prove it. He congratulated himself on keeping several former aliases stored on his holo-disc's memory crystal; he had also retained the citizenship papers and _curriculum vitae_ for one "Ibo Bikenowa," on the supposition that such might again come in handy – though he had not revealed this to the proper owner of the fictitious persona. Obi-Wan had a marked distaste for clandestine operations, though he was eerily adept at dissimulation.

Moments later he received an automated message inviting him to an_ interview_ aboard the Nemoidian freighter ship presently occupying Niffrendi's upper orbit. He was to report to docking bay twelve in the main port, where he would be met by a commuter shuttle and his prospective employers.

With a grim chuckle, he accepted the innocently couched invitation and then sallied forth into the city's mercantile sector, in search of a few extra _props_ for his intended play.

* * *

The niffenbear did not make a comfortable steed, but it compensated for this inconvenience in sheer speed and cunning, descending the mountainside in a unlikely and convoluted series of zig-zags, heaving body flowing over tumbled rock and between close-pressed trees with amazing agility. It huffed and grunted and more than once lost track of the purpose imposed upon its small glimmer of intelligence, taking a sidetrack to investigate some alluring source of provender. In this manner Obi-Wan learned that the beast's ferocious appendages were in fact tools for the destruction of dead tree trunks and the digging of trenches beneath stones; that the bear's appetite ran to sap, honey, and crawling insects rather than any more impressive predatory menu; that even the most strident of Force persuasion was barely sufficient to convince the self-assured and amiably bumbling creature to _get on._

Halfway down the slope, he admitted to himself that this was a preferable means of transport to the broken grav-bike, though a saddle might not have been a poor addition to the scenario. He had nearly slipped off a half dozen times in the last half hour, and that was not counting his near decapitation by a jutting branch as they dove beneath the overhanging bough. Only Jedi reflexes had saved him from humiliation or worse.

At the forest's edge, where the slope smoothed into a blank expanse of stone-dotted plain, his willing mount finally balked, instinctual avoidance of the empty land over-riding even the compulsion laid upon its will by invisible power. The young Jedi slid to the damp earth, grimacing at the lowering clouds overhead, and relinquished his hold upon the beast. It blinked at him four times, befuddled, and then turned tail and dashed back to the cover of its native environs, enormous haunches rolling comically as it pelted across the soft groundcover and into the first line of trees.

"Right," Obi-Wan sighed, eyeing the distance between _here_ and the blurry specks of stone marking the distant Wormholes, the Wanderer's natural refuge. Under the overcast sky, in such a randomly textured and flat vista, it was difficult to estimate the number of klicks lying between – but it must be of near marathon proportions.

He reflected wryly that he had not run all those countless training circuits about the Temple's perimeter in vain , or for not purpose beyond the obvious disciplinary one- nor had all those hard months wandering the blasted surface of Melida-Daan done him any harm. He was capable. Taking a moment to immerse himself in the Force, in stone and sky, humble succulent underfoot and electrical ripple in the storm-laden air, he breathed in strength and stamina not his own, boundless power gathering beneath the dark billows of the sky.

Raindrops spattered on his upturned face, heralds of a cold army on the march. He exhaled, returning to center, to self and the body, blood already flooding quicker through its pulsing riverbed. He regretfully shrugged free of his heavy cloak, not wishing to imagine what the Temple's cantankerous quartermaster might say when he requested a new one, and let the umber cloth drop in a heap to the damp earth. It was a waste, no doubt, but a necessary sacrifice if he was not to be encumbered by its copious folds and extra weight.

Thunder signaled the beginning of the race; he took off at a measured sprint, Niffrendi's ceaseless wind at his back and the Force's vibrant claxon of danger ringing in his pounding ears.

* * *

Thunder rattled the spaceport hangar's lofty girders, the Force growling an inaudible counterpart baritone. Qui-Gon Jinn's confident stride faltered infinitesimally; too well did he know _that_ peculiar sense of foreboding, the penumbra of danger falling over one absent but never far in the Force. He hesitated, scowling regally at the heavens far overhead, their dark clouds obscured by the corrugated metal roof.

_Obi-Wan…_

But there was no way to issue warning and besides, such a gesture would be rebuffed as somehow insulting to the younger Jedi's competency, would it not? And if the Force deigned to warn him, Qui-Gon, then surely it would gratuitously and copiously enlighten its newest chosen servant, the one who would do "what he must" despite what any other mortal might do to interfere?

The tall man's exhalation was a _harrumph _ worthy of Master Yoda at his most cantankerous. He chuckled bitterly at himself in its aftermath, at the brave masquerade of irritation behind which a gnawing fear paraded beneath his ribs. A Padawan's place was at his master's side – for more than one reason; a Knight's was in the field, duty foremost and personal safety second, third, or nowhere.

He was not dealing with a _child_ any longer – and the fact that had in the Temple, or at staid negotiating tables, presented such an innocuous, mildly sentimental countenance now leered at him with gargoylish aspect, a grim and merciless reminder of the perils of their calling, of his _impotence_ to thwart or change the decree of Fate.

_Someday, Qui-Gon, you will live to regret your saviour's complex._

Yan Dooku's cultured tones, polished to a supercilious sheen, echoed n his memory. With another disgruntled sigh, he wrested his wandering attention back to the immediate, rigidly circumscribed moment and his task. He flowed across the tarmac like a scudding thunderhead, and accosted the Nemoidian ship's bosun standing attentively at the foot of the designated shuttle.

"I have an appointment with Shlomm Tord," he briskly announced.

The minor officer, lowly enough within the rigidly structured caste system to merit nothing more impressive than a squat hands-width of conical black as headgear, bobbed and wheezed, sending him up the ramp into the ship's hold, where a pair of equally low-ranking crew members waited with a foursome of spindly security droids.

These latter the Jedi master favored with a disdainful stare; unless the Techno Union managed to produce the inept machines in greater numbers, the automated soldiers would never amount to anything truly threatening in the mercenary world. Besides their inept humanoid shape, the remotely programmable bots were infamous for slow processors and lousy weaponry. It would take a technological revolution to render them remotely intimidating, as the now defunct but legendary Footmen droids had been in centuries bygone.

A miracle perhaps fueled by rare-grade ionite?

He stowed the insight away for future meditation, making a great show of complying with the tersely issued command that he divest himself of any weaponry.

Theatrically, he unloaded the two blasters, small hand held dart-stunner, matching vibroshovs, a clutch of small low-grade explosive grenades, and a throwing knife hidden in his boot. The Nemoidian duo's green, fleshy skin blanched to a sickly grey as his casually insouciant strip-down yielded such an egregious surplus.

"That's it – besides my hands, which are not removable." He adopted a wide-legged stance, emanating boundless confidence. One of the droids accidentally swung the barrel of its unwieldy blaster rifle in his direction, and he shoved it out of the line of fire with two fingers.

"Uh..oh, yes… thank you… a precaution, you understand… this way, I will announce your arrival. We are scheduled to depart in ten standard."

He was ushered into a small cabin outfitted with chairs and a table bolted to one bulkhead, and told to please wait for the Financial Officer to join him. The pressure door hissed shut behind the quavering guards, sealing him in the quiet, dim-lit bowels of the Nemoidian vessel.

He crossed his legs and settled in, the Force urging him onward toward the heart of the mystery.

* * *

Halfway to his landmark, Obi-Wan slowed to a halt, bending over with hands on thoroughly soaked knees. The rain pelted down, relentless, washing rivulets of sweat away in a cold deluge. He panted, drawing in the Force, drawing in oxygen, his lungs burning and abdominal muscles cramping badly along his left side.

There were techniques to handle such inconveniences, of course.

He sank to his knees, despite the rain-logged vegetation underfoot. In, out. The skies roiled with thunder, and the light waned into a dismal grey ocean. Moisture cascaded down his already drenched back, spattered onto his upturned hands.

His heart hammered frantically against his chest, his blood sang in his ears. The world seemed to spin and throb in unison with his wild pulse. Halfway there, but not far enough. And not fast enough. Center, center, center.

Before his inner eye, imagined droid tanks underwent a metamorphosis, transmuting into legions of the undead, into ravening empty-eyed hordes. Rain turned to dust, lightning into lurid twilight, cold into gnawing abandonment.

_I am not on Melida –Daan The Force is with me. _The illusion dissolved, running into the colorless smear of the world all around. Danger swelled on the horizon, a rising flood.

_Breath is vital fire, fire is the Force; feel the Force burning, unquenchable, within you. Feel its infinity, its bottomless origin. Breathe it, burn it, burn in it. Be as a lantern consumed by Light. There is no weakness, there is no pain. There is only the Force._

Lightning hit somewhere – not near, and yet not a great enough distance to be comfortable.

He rose, burning vital fire in every cell, new strength flooding his veins. _Go, go, go._

He sprang forward again, dashing over the slippery plains, flying headlong over the wide grasslands, toward the jagged ramparts of the Wormholes, while the standing stones seemed to cheer him on, white faces turned in astonishment toward the lonely messenger hurtling over the storm-lashed earth.


	14. Chapter 14

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

Shlomm Tord took his sweet time, waiting until the shuttle was well on its way through atmosphere before entering the small cabin in a rustle of frayed robes, his moldy black hat wobbling precariously atop his sickly face.

"Ah, Mr. Quonn," the Nemoidian lisped, folding his gangly, awkward body into the opposite chair. "I have reviewed your application at length… and I must say, your resume is quite impressive."

The tall man nodded, cautiously. "It's made quite an impression in the past, if that's what you mean – and not always a favorable one."

But the reptilian waved a pudgy hand at him, reassuringly. "We understand the convoluted nature of the Core world justice systems. I promise you, the Trade Federation takes an enlightened view of such entanglements."

_I'll bet you do._ The Jedi master merely offered his interlocutor a tight-lipped smile.

"I can see why a man with your… experience… might wish to make a new start. And this is a good place to make that start. As it happens, we are recruiting officers for a standing militia."

His interviewee straightened. "An army?"

Shlomm Tord wriggled, glazed eyes blinking rapidly. "A security force. The Republic will sanction its existence – a matter of formalities, really…. the entire affair will be completely _legal."_

"Ah, of course." Cato Nemoidia's natives were unfailingly compliant with the letter of galactic law. As for the spirit and intention of the same… well. "I came out here looking for a bit of easy profit. An army, now - that implies riskier dealings. Is this about those slave raids? …Rumors have traveled far."

At this the Nemoidian's concave chest heaved, as though in private mirth. "You need not worry yourself about the _raids_," he wheezed. "They are…under control."

The Force rippled, a broad note of dissonance in the universal energy. "Indeed?" Was it possible…? "Then why this security force you propose?"

Tord gestured vaguely. "Merely protecting our corporate investment in this sector. As I told you, we have a cornered market… but alas, there is no limit to the greed of other beings."

Here Qui-Gon was hard-pressed not to choke upon the irony. "Hutts and Togorians," he supplied.

The Nemoidian's lipless mouth rumpled into a sine curve of revulsion. "Yes. And rivals inside the Republic. There is no _respect_ for business anymore. A sign of the times, you might say."

The tall man crossed his legs the other way, deliberately slumping further into his chair. "So – you're going to raise an army to keep other investors out?"

"Investors… and other interfering busybodies."

"I see." Inspectors. Liaisons and ambassadors from the Core. Trade regulatory commissions – anything that might cramp Cato Nemoidia's style. "What about the local government? I don't want any trouble," he insisted. "I've had enough of that for a lifetime."

Tord grunted, dismissively. "If you will forgive my blunt observation – the planetary economy depends upon Trade Federation goodwill. They have been extraordinarily docile. And as I said, this is all perfectly _legal."_

"So long as it's legal," the Jedi drawled, carelessly. "And what are my duties and- ah, salary? If you will forgive the blunt question."

"That," Tord replied, standing again, "Depends on your answer. I will give you some time to consider." He shambled out the door again, leaving his prospective hireling to mull over the terms of contract.

* * *

The Wormholes ghastly shapes loomed close at last, their outlines blurred by stinging sweat and rain. Obi-Wan skidded to the sheltered blast doors marking the abandoned mine shaft and pounded for admittance, the throb of approaching danger setting his very teeth on edge.

The panels parted a half-meter to reveal two squint eyed sentries. "You!" barked the man who had loaned him the speeder. "What the hell're you doin' out there? Storm's on and the Scythe's gonna start swingin' any time now - And where in blitherin' damnation is that _bike?"_

"I'm sorry," the young Jedi panted, chest heaving for breath and legs aching with an acidic burn. "Where is Kern- the trading party- my companion?"

"They ain't back yet."

Obi-Wan leaned upon the rough hewn doorframe and gazed into the murky downpour. The traders must be just ahead of the attack party – they might barely have time to make it to the stones' shelter. He heaved in a few more deep breaths. "Do you have any weapons? Explosives? Launchers?"

The two sentries peered at him as though he had lost not only the swoop but his wits.

"What? You gonna take those off into the blue and lose 'em too? Get in here or stay out there, but don't waste our time talking vapin' nonsense!"

The roar of a rattling repulsor-sled saved them from further disputation; Kerrn and his crew appeared around the western side of the slope, driving the convoy at a breakneck speed. The men leapt from their empty palettes like beasts with a predator upon their tail.

"Raiders!" Kerrn shouted. "Just behind us! Get to cover!"

But the mine shafts and the ancient doors that sealed them were no safe refuge from high powered automated tanks. Obi-Wan gasped in a few more pained breaths, peering through the gathering gloom, the driving sheets of rain. "Where is Qui-Gon?"

"That tall friend o yers? He's off on his own business – told us to leave without him."

The man's former padawan slammed an open hand against the rock-face. "_Blast _ it!"

He _needed_ the Jedi master _here. Now._ In the present star-forsaken moment, when an entire army of robotic destroyers was descending on masse upon innocent people, with intent to massacre.

"Get inside, son !" Kerrn urged him.

His bark of laughter probably sounded mad, too. "No – you go. Do these tunnels have another outlet?"

The Folk's savvy leader nodded. "They run fer klicks underground. Plenty of escape routes."

"Take your people as far as you can – I'll hold them off here."

The gathered Wanderers favored him with pitying looks, appalled looks, looks full of mingled admiration and fear.

The ground rumbled, but not with thunder.

"Now! Go!" Obi-Wan ordered, the strife-wracked Force kindling a new fire in his veins. Exhausted or not, with or without an ally, he would do what he must.

"He's cracked," Kerrn muttered, Git! Git – we'll go fer the other end of the tunnels – get the rest moving!"

His companions hustled away to organize the evacuation; the elder hesitated upon the threshold. "Come on now, there ain't nothin' you can do against them tanks. Save yerself."

"They'll blow the doors in and come after you," Obi-Wan insisted, grimly. "Believe me. I've seen it before."

"Well, an' this'll be the last time you see it , too! We'll take our chances an so should you! Don't be an idiot!"

"Just go."

Something in his expression, or the growling undertone of his voice, worked the requisite trick. Kerrn sighed, and clapped a hand against his soaking wet shoulder, and disappeared into the Holes, sealing the oxidized door panels behind him.

* * *

Qui-Gon remained outwardly immobile, sprawled insouciantly in the Trade Federation's molded chair, his long legs stretched out before him. His mind, however, sank deep in the Living Force, the present knot of circumstances, the shifting eddies of avarice and deceit that wove their way through the Nemoidian vessel. What Tord had told him was true, he sensed, but not the whole truth; what the untrustworthy envoy wanted from him was unclear – possibly even to Tord himself; what degree of culpability the planetary government held in the matter was dubious, a point for casuists' debate. In the moment, a focused act of malice was underway – somewhere below them, on the planet's surface. An act that was intended as tipping point, a fulcrum upon which to turn events in the direction desired by the scheming reptilian interlopers.

The threads of a tapestry long in the weaving lay apparent to him now: the Niffrendi government had long ago invested in surveillance equipment and some rudimentary automated weapons, in a failed attempt to wrest ionite harvesting rights away from the indigent communities; the Trade Federation had been secretly dealing the ionite to select buyers for decades, a transaction untaxed and unreported to Republic authorities on both sides; recently Cato Nemoidia had decided to consolidate the investment into its own holdings, by means of an army the Republic would approve under false pretenses. The slave raids that would so conveniently sway the Senate's approval were, it would seem, staged affairs – random attacks against unimportant citizenry, for the sake of some business deal sealed at the highest levels.

But there was more to it – there had to be.

Tord returned with another, shorter member of his species, another minor officer introduced as Boll Ghurb, corporate public relations liaison.

"Have you considered our offer?" the reptilian wheezed.

Qui-Gon waved a hand, idly. "I don't know. The market potential looks good now, but what if your buyer loses interest? Then I'm out of a job. Everyone knows security is the first extra to get cut when the budget gets tight."

"No,no,no," the Nemoidian assured him. "As Ghurb will tell you, our exclusive contract with Baktoid Armories covers a ten year period, minimally."

Baktoid? The tall man sat up, despite himself.

"Ah… you are familiar with them?" Ghurb interjected.

"Somewhat. A man with my background tends to worry about where his… tools… are manufactured." Baktoid specialized in weapons, explosives, armor and automated droid security – high end and black market tech accoutrements for assassins, bounty hunters, unstable planetary governments or those planning to usurp them.

"Of course, of course. Our client has experienced an upsurge in sales, and therefore demand for raw materials is at an all time high. And the trend is predicted to continue."

This was news to the Jedi master. "Really? I wasn't aware Hutts and Togorians could afford to do business with such exclusive dealers."

Tord waved a webbed hand, dismissively. "The Rims are a rough place, Mr. Quonn. The barbarians are not the only people out here… to be frank, the Republic only holds this territory in _name. _ I would not be surprised if a certain multiplication of our customer base were to occur in the near future."

And what did that mean? Sedition? Other outside interests as yet unknown? A power struggle among existing groups over far-flung and unincorporated territory?

"Huh," he responded, feigning boredom. "That's all off my transponder frequency. I just want to know you have something worth mucking about over for more than a day or two. At my age, job _security_ is what counts."

The Nemoidians blinked at him, waiting his decision, their flabby faces and necks absurdly complemented by brocaded velvetar gowns.

"I'll take the job," he smiled.

* * *

Obi-Wan stood atop the highest white stone, rain whipping about him, a cold wind driving knives through sopping tunics, tugging mercilessly at loose hair. Beneath the lowering sky, in the gloom of swiftly falling night, the enemy was visible as a ragged line of beetles, dark carapaced bodies crawling ponderously over the soft, storm-drenched earth. They crested a last gentle rise in the rolling plains, and he counted them as they came.

_Eleven._

Releasing a Yamalsa technique centering breath, he flipped his 'saber hilt over in one hand, relishing the perfect balance of the weapon, even without the blade ignited, and felt the Force rising like a furious tide to meet the onslaught. He felt himself carried in the vanguard of its momentum, swept up into a power that encompassed every living thing upon the planet, cold rock and chaotic sky.

Lightning flared on the opposite horizon, skeletal fingers of white clawing into the dark veils beyond. In the blinding flash, the cannon of his foes stood out like so many lowered lances, a grim cavalry at the charge. They made a steady marching progress for the Wormholes, clearly aware of the Folk's hiding place, following the natural curve of the land. Another sheet of lightning split the dome above into halves; by its glaring momentary radiance he could see where this route would lead the line of tanks between two massive chunks of glacial stone, burly sentinels guarding the gates to this last refuge.

The armored invaders crept closer, implacable- and the young Jedi braced himself for all-out battle, 'saber blade leaping like sapphire lightning from its hilt, as thunder sounded a clarion war-cry all around.


	15. Chapter 15

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 15**

The first of the murderous assailants crept to the natural stone gateway's threshold, the place where two jutting slabs of white granite marked the entry to a primordial circle, a petrified council of giants. Wind screamed high above the plains, scattering rain and hail like autumnal leaves; dusk fell, a doomsday blackness smothering the wild world in angry, storm-fraught nightmare.

_Now!_

Obi-Wan plunged deep into the Light, self and place smearing into a radiant ambiguity, stone and earth and grass and air rushing in to fill the interstices of being, a totality crowding into a single fragile vessel, the whole becoming the part. He cried out, alight with a power he could not long contain or direct, and _pushed_ the tallest of the monoliths over the edge of its axis, tipping it past gravity's fulcrum. Its mass teetered, swung, and keeled over in a slow arc, crashing thunderously into its misshapen neighbor. The second stone ripped loose of its sodden mooring, a colossal white tooth ripped free of the planet's jaw, and rolled into the leaning pillars between which the tanks now crawled in quiet, malicious procession.

The nearest colossal column was cleaved in twain, top half sliding ponderously against the base, keeling over into the gap with an apocalyptic crash. The foremost tank escaped destruction by a hairsbreadth; the second was crushed to ruin - and the third must have been clipped by a massive rock shard, for there followed a bright flaring explosion, one bright enough to rival the lightning.

And with a silent war cry, a thranctill's piercing scream resounding in the Force, the young Jedi leapt off his high perch, falling upon the battlefield like a spear of blue lightning, weapon blazing an elaborate helix about his body as he soared down in the path of the first tank, now temporarily separated from its allies by a wall of stone. The thing was a hulking automated monster, ungainly but deadly, treads foregone in favor of reticulated mechnical legs; it scuttled implacably forward, targeting light flickering in menace.

Obi-Wan sprinted, throwing himself _ahead_ of the first blast, rolling beneath the metallic creature's heavily shielded belly. The conveyance halted, tramped side to side, began a slow about-face; he could hear the whir of servos as the cannon swiveled wildly about, seeking him.

His 'saber howled in delight as it swung, severing thick legs at the joint in merciless succession: right, left left, right again, bringing the monstrosity to its knees. another slash on the left and the whole mass reeled drunkenly above him as the truncated supports bent and sparked, sinking deep into rain-soaked earth. He rolled wildly beneath the falling mass, taking off the last extremity as he narrowly escaped the collapsing chassis. The tank thudded into the mud and trampled succulents, blasting indiscriminately at a target it could not find. Heavy power artillery slammed into the tumbled rock beyond, sending up a spray of massive fragments, dust, and burning debris. The young Jedi sheltered himself from the onslaught with the Force, leapt high and somersaulted to the cannon barrel, straddling the enormous pipe and shouting fiercely as he swung _down, _blade carving a vicious, molten line in the housing. The whine of another shot loading –

-he _flew_ off his perch, heart hammering –

-and the blast tore the weapon's barrel apart, its explosive charge igniting inside the chamber, ripping cannon from mooring and punching a smoking hole in the armored body. With a terrible groan, the killing machine expired, burning sullenly in the veils of rain, sending up toxic ribbons of smoke.

Three quick shoulder rolls and Obi-Wan was back on his feet, squinting through hail spangled darkness, sensing rather than seeing the approach of the remaining enemies. They had rounded the obstacle now, four and four, a group to right and left, executing a classic pincer maneuver.

Teeth gritted, a furious protective growl sounding in his throat, he dashed toward the right-hand group, fleeing behind the shelter of another stone, leading the hunters on a merry chase.

* * *

Tord reappeared after a lengthy hiatus, making some excuse about running a standard background check. He invited his new employee to join him in a private conference salon to discuss details of salary and benefits.

"You know," Qui-Gon observed offhandedly, "If you really want to turn a profit on this ionite, you ought to institute droid harvesting. One time capital investment, and after that no middle merchant."

Shlomm Tord, leading the way to the Core ships upper level communications deck, indulged in a low chuckle. "Apparently the locals tried just that forty years ago.. it was a disaster. They purchased some security equipment and surveillance systems form the Techno Union and attempted a coup… unfortunately they were very short-sighted. The indigents outnumber the settled inhabitants ten to one."

"A failed coup," Quonn neatly summarized. "Still," he idly mused, "Once a security force is occupying the planet, it might be easier to _convince_ the natives to back off and let an efficient workforce take over."

The Nemoidian rubbed his oily hands together, shuffling down another long corridor. The Jedi master took careful note of their routa and the intervening lift shafts. "You catch on quickly, my friend. We should have no more difficulties with the nomadic groups once we have our militia established." He stopped at a wide security door and punched in a complex code. "The most delightful irony is this: the Republic will license our efforts precisely to protect those worthless scavengers."

The tall man's heart clenched. The Folk were the intended _victims_ of a military action to be initiated on their behalf? The Force was murky, its broad currents convoluted and warped by conflicting patterns, indiscernible eddies of malice and conspiracy. "How do you mean?"

They entered another private conference chamber, one containing four of the ubiquitous security droids. Thus far, Qui-Gon had counted upwards of three score, wandering the passages and holds of the ship; he wondered uneasily how many more were packed away in storage, and to what purpose. He had not inquired yet as to the _nature_ of the intended militia, and it struck him now that it might be of an entirely non-sentient character.

"Please, come in, Come in." The doors self-sealed behind them, the ominous _thunk_ of blast panels falling into place outside. "Forgive the precautions – we cannot be too careful , even in our own ranks. There are _grubs_ and _climbers_ at every level."

Qui-Gon nodded. Cato Nemoidi's culture was a seething mass of ruthless competition and rigid caste structures. Every member of the Nemoidian race was brought up to fight and manipulate at will, to ascend as high as possible within the societal hierarchy. Those left behind were deemed worthless and consigned to poverty and misery working in the fungus farms that fueled the world's original economy. The vast wealth generated by the planet's trading franchise was shared by only an elite percentage of the populace, and therefore an object of boundless avarice and obsession.

"I still don't quite follow you," he prompted his host, who was busily pouring from a carafe of fermented _chom'kubba._

Tord smirked. "Don't be naïve, Mr. Quonn. There aren't any _slave raids_ from the Outer systems. That is a rumor perpetuated by my Federation… and it has been very useful in swaying Senate opinion. The attacks on Niffrendi have all been coordinated by the planetary government – with some _encouragement, _of course. Even as we speak, one of the more obnoxious nomadic tribes is being wiped out completely. When news of the massacre reaches Coruscant, a legislative decision in favor of our army will be a matter of course."

The Jedi master stilled, forcibly concealing his alarm behind a bland façade. The Force tautened further, seeming to affirm his disgust. Danger weighted the very air - a suffocating veil of deception. "Very ingenious," he remarked. _Massacre._ And not, as he had supposed, at the hands of a barbarian warlord, but as the result of an insidious conspiracy, a threat originating much closer to home.

Obi-Wan had been right.

And with that realization, a flood of concomitant anxiety threatened to ruffle his composed exterior. _At this very moment…_ stars' end. The Folk of the Stones. Massacre. Danger. His _padawan._

Former padawan.

"Mr. Quonn?"

"I am stunned by your bold ploy. Clearly the Federation is much more than the shipping franchise I thought it to be."

Tord slurped noisily at his brew and proferred the tall man a second fluted cup – but the Force was vibrant with a new alarm, a twisting omen of immediate danger, of cunning betrayal. Qui-Gon's eyes narrowed. Did Tord think him a naif? "No thank you." He waved the noxious beverage away, nerves tingling, muscles tensing. Something was very wrong, in the here and now, not just on the planet's surface.

"You are right," the Nemoidian lisped, upending his cup. "We have a … singularly powerful _consultant._ An ally of sorts. And, I must tell you," – here Tord coughed a bit, perhaps choking on the tea's foul flavor – "it was his insight that both formulated this plan, and also, " – another wheezing gasp, bug eyes bulging – "he that recognized your false alias…. _Master Jedi."_

The reptilian abruptly slumped forward in his chair, Force signature all but snuffed out. Qui-Gon sprang to his feet, uttering a short curse under his breath at his own foolhardiness and blind confidence – and then another as the air pressurizer vents hissed audibly.

The four droids standing sentinel in the corners leveled rifles at him; his 'saber was in his hand and ignited before they had drawn a bead. Plasma bolts zinged and ricocheted off the bulkheads, scorching plastoid molding and the expensive gription foam deck coverings. The emerald blade swept and arced, rebounding fire into its originals, chopping heads form spindly necks. The last robotic guard slammed into the blast doors with such force that his extremities popped from their sockets and rolled in three directions.

In the next instant, the Jedi had sunk his weapon hilt deep in the door, intending to carve an opening. But the elapsed time had been too great – within seconds, the venting system's powerful decompressor had sucked all breathable air from the room. In battle, without a chance to initiate a Yamalsa holding breath, he was badly compromised. His head spun, his lungs burned. A Force technique stayed the effects of asphixiation off for long seconds, a minute, longer; the door melted to slag at an agonizingly slow pace, his arms aching with terrible fire as he fought to drag the plasma blade against unyielding tritanium. His circle widened, crumbled…

….almost free….

blackness pain crushing nothingness –

* * *

Two of the automata blew each other to smithereens, coming round opposite sides of his shelter and simultaneously opening fire; Obi-Wan leapt clear of the blast, landing atop the stone itself and nearly losing his balance as the shock wave rocked its foundation. The third enemy targeted him, cannon ratcheting upward as it hurled another devastating blast in his direction. The explosive pummeled the stone beneath his feet, sending him flying again, this time against his will as a second shock wave seized the air and flung him skyward. Chips of stone and shrapnel pelted his wet skin, and he twisted away, slipping and rolling heavily upon the rain-slick grass.

"Ugh!" He clutched at bruised ribs, slewed round and ducked again as the destroyed boulder split in half and toppled into two parts, the near side crushing another tank. He grinned at that - and then cursed as his dogged pursuer bore down upon him.

'Saber. Saber – where was it? His hand reached out blindly into the Force, and the hilt came sailing into his hand, straight and true, as though seeking its rightful place. The blade ignited a split second before the next blast hit, deflecting the powerful energy packet at a crazed angle, and all but sending him head over heels backward in a sprawling heap.

_Blast and blast! _He sucked in a deep breath, certain that his shoulder was dislocated. Not good. He sprang up, ignoring the pain, the grind of bone against bone, switching to left-handed reverse grip, _shoto _ style.

_Let_ it come.

The machine lumbered forward, legs rising and falling like the cleavers of some fanatic chef, the splayed metallic feet squelching the groundcover underfoot, pressing deep tracks in to the rutted, muddy earth. The young Jedi cried out, back and arm screaming in protest as he flung himself beneath the threat of its cannon, skidding on one knee under the massive body, favoring it with the same treatment he had given the first. Legs sawed off, this time right left right left right duck and roll left – it collapsed with a groan, weapon discharging once feebly before its foe was upon it, plunging his 'saber deep into the targeting light, and then springing away.

Circuits gone haywire, it sent off blasts in every direction, a mad carousel of energy bolts spinning into frenetic night. The remaining tanks lurched forward, confused by the friendly fire, sensors overloaded by smoke and rain and furious lightning. One of them went down, taking a hit direct to its motivators. Its bulk skidded and slammed into its crippled comrade, taking them both out in a deafening fireball.

Obi-Wan dodged and leapt over flying slag, ducking as a sheet of molten blast paneling whizzed over his head. Three more. He panted, his borrowed strength seeming to bleed out of him with every throbbing pulse of his wounded shoulder. Not yet – he could not fail, not now, not like this. He would _finish_ the fight.

He brandished his 'saber in a showy flourish, willing himself forward on a wave of desperate resolution, his face drawn into a belligerent, challenging snarl - and charged headfirst at darkly looming death.


	16. Chapter 16

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 16**

The metal behemoth reared its ugly head, cannon swiveling about angrily – the banshee's cry of the pressurizer chamber, a clap of furious thunder –

Obi-Wan reached through the Force, his own shuddering cry of exertion blending with the night's clamor, and _shoved_ the barrel to one side, sending the high-power explosive blast askew. The energy bolt smashed into a glacial stone's base, splintering millenia-old rock to shards and indifferent dust; the massive bulk groaned as its weight shifted, its immovable foundation suddenly violated; the stone fell, slowly, countless tons of antediluvian granite falling haplessly into gravity's embrace.

The tank was _crushed._

And then _exploded – _sending a wide supernova of flames and smoldering particles in a rippling shock radius. The young Jedi shielded himself with the Force, twisted boldly to evade impalement, caught a nasty splatter of slag upon his 'saber blade, and then screamed as a tiny, spinning fragment of _something _ whizzed beneath his desperate left-handed guard and buried itself in his thigh.

But there was no time to staunch the wound – he rolled and skidded away a bare half-meter ahead of the next blast, one issuing from the destroyed machine's comrade. The second and third assailants bore steadily down upon him, huge leg joints grinding mercilessly as they propelled the heavy armored killers forward. Just beyond lay the entrance the Folk's mine shaft, their last place of refuge. The killers advanced, targeting the doors now.

"_No!"_ the embattled knight growled, leaping wildly atop the foremost tank, slashing downward with his weapon. The cannon was halved just as it discharged, immolating itself in a wrathful fireball, rivaling the lightning-torn heavens for sound and fury.

Obi-Wan landed badly again, this time taking the weight on his injured leg and sliding dangerously close to the last tank's rear appendages. He was beneath cannon range, but the colossal pistons rose and fell, each clawed foot sinking into sodden earth like a four-tined pitchfork, jagged knives ploughing the soil into muddy gashes. He rolled clear of the last downward strike, panting. The thing's chassis loomed above him, momentarily blotting out the tumultuous sky. He slashed a vicious line into the undercarriage, wincing as hot sparks showered down about him. A hatch fell apart; heedless of consequence, not knowing what it was he did, he buried the plasma blade in the exposed circuits and rolled clear as the automaton lumbered past him, a whine building deep in its chest as it prepared another blast.

The young Jedi slewed round, onto his belly, and then ducked as the intended shot went wide, hurtling into the stone above the opening. He must have damaged the targeting system, for several more blasts missed their target, pummeling the massive rockface until it crumbled and fell, a mighty avalanche of blackened stone obscuring the Wormholes' entrance.

The machine lurched drunkenly , and then stumbled backward a pace, a valiant gladiator struggling to stand in the face of overwhelming odds. Obi-Wan matched it, finding his own precarious balance, raising his 'saber in a last salute, gathering himself for a final spring –

Excoriating light speared downward, a column of blinding radiance briefly uniting sky and earth, melting night into painful noon, melding sight and hearing into a single shout of pain, _obliterating_ the monster in one deafening strike, throwing the solitary witness an easy ten meters backward onto unforgiving stone.

The entire world stank of ozone and smoke; for a moment the rain seemed hot, the cloud-clotted sky seemed an abysmal sea, surprise was pain and pain was sizzling pleasure and the universe itself inverted and blasted asunder into absurd shreds of sensation, meaning scattered like retched dust.

And then he gasped in a shaking breath, mind reeling at his proximity to that last bolt of vengeful fire, his already laboring heart contracting violently as instinct flooded his overworked system with a cold flood of realization: the Scythe was beginning to swing, and that had been no _ordinary_ lightning bolt.

Shaking, shoulder and leg protesting vociferously, he crawled pathetically for cover, for the scant shelter of the nearest boulder's overhang, and pressed himself into its hard curve. His saber's liquid blue flame expired as he clipped it clumsily at his belt and clutched hard at the dark patch on his trouser leg. The wound was bleeding heavily, and was – he noted with the clarity of exhaustion – alarmingly close to the artery. The Force whipped about him, a wild and indocile rainfall of power, its harmony churned into an ugly froth by the battle.

"Blast," he moaned, digging deep for a last scrap of supernal luminance, just enough to stop himself from pouring out his lifeblood on this hell-forsaken plain. The hot drenching beneath his hand slowed to a sticky ooze. He wiped his trembling, crimson-stained fingers upon his sopping tunic and cradled his right elbow in his left hand, grinding his teeth against the renewed pain, the jarring grate of bone on bone.

"_Damn_ it to the lowest Sith hell!"

There was no knowing where Qui-Gon might be…. Nor could he feel the Jedi master in the Force. He was simply too worn out to extend himself so far, to grasp at the Force's infinite power. The refuge of the Wormholes was effectively denied him, for he hadn't the strength to lift the fallen slabs of rock that blocked the doors. He let his head fall back against the stone and watched in fascination as a second and third tree of lightning blossomed on the far horizon, unable to summon the faintest scrap of concern for his own safety, or for anything at all….

And then, to his slightly muddled astonishment, a dark shape descended beneath the clouds, flying low from the opposite direction, behind the low mountains. The pilots must be daring indeed to risk even a low-altitude flight in this storm… but the abstract and emotionless thought was driven from his drifting mind by the shape of the vessel's profile, the distinctive silhouette of a scavenger bird looking for carrion. Even as he watched in vaguely horrified and slowly dawning comprehension, the predatory form circled lower, passed overhead, and landed just outside the wide circle of carnage, the wreckage left by his encounter with the tanks.

He dragged a name, a pang of dread, out of the swiftly darkening morass of thought and memory, just before the world was plunged into a dizzying silence, a roaring emptiness: _the Paxellian scout ship._

It was his last coherent thought before he blacked out entirely.

* * *

At first he took it for the placeless tranquility of deep meditation- and would perhaps have so remained, blissfully suspended between being and its source, had it not been for the subtle razoring of pain up and down his extremities and spine in random sequence. He grasped for the shores of consciousness, crawling out of murky breakers toward sensation, mind registering a peculiar lack of gravitational pull….

…was he _floating?_ …

But there was no _water, _ no omnipresent fluidity pressing in on all sides, no current flowing about his heavy limbs.

Qui-Gon Jinn groaned and opened his eyes, squinting through a thick blue haze at a blank plastoid –reinforced wall.

Ship's bulkhead. Nemoidians. Capture. Memory snapped back into place, bringing him fully awake and tensing every muscle for action –

"_Aaagh!"_

He was not a Jedi master for nothing; the moment his involuntary motion caused the lancing thread of fire to shoot through his nerves, he calmed himself. Deep Yamalsa breaths rendered him quiescent, alert but unnaturally still. It was a first lesson, one deeply ingrained. Relax. Think. Use the Force.

He assessed his new surroundings, relying on senses besides vision, on reasoning and instinct. He was suspended in what felt like a powerful counterbalanced grav-repulsor field, a maglev containment cone like those sometimes used to neutralize the weight of heavy cargo loads. Clever – he was immobilized very neatly.

His 'saber was, naturally, gone. His wrists and ankles were each wrapped in a pulsing band of simple conductive material, some substance that attracted electrical energy off the containment field. The resulting discharge throbbed through his body with every slight jostling movement, and faintly washed over his nerves like an acidic ocean tide.

That would make accessing the Force for any long period of time very difficult indeed – and this fact disturbed him. The Nemoidians should not be so…. adept.. at neutralizing a Jedi. Such devices bespoke an accurate knowledge and intimacy with a Force-user's psychosomatic constitution, the intricate meshing of Force and flesh. He exhaled, slowly, willing himself not to move more than necessary. The "consultant" whom Tord had mentioned… who _was_ this insidious person? And did he, like the late Sifo-Dyas, have some connection to the Order?

As though summoned by his thought – or more likely by some remote monitoring system - the slimy Nemoidian financial officer appeared through a doorway behind the prisoner. Qui-Gon heard a second pair of shuffling feet cross the threshold behind Tord, and rightly guessed that this was Boll Ghurb, his underling and co-conspirator.

The pair of simpering reptilians worked their way round to his front, rubbing pudgy hands togther in glee at the sight of their helpless captive.

"Ah," Tord chuffed, rumpled mouth puckering in satisfaction. "I think we are in a better position to negotiate now, Master Jinn."

The tall man cocked a brow at the use of his name. Whomever the Nemoidians had contracted as ally and informant, he was _good._ Access to Jedi identity documents was highly restricted, to say the least – though, he admitted wryly to himself, he had been about the galaxy enough decades to have left a few loose ends and unresolved grudges lying about.

"There is nothing to negotiate," he asserted, gritting his teeth as the act of speaking cost him a sharp twinge from the crackling bracelets. He relaxed, focusing on the moment and its possibilities.

Tord indulged in an oily laugh. "Admit it… you are outmaneuvered. You should have accepted that drink in the conference room – it contained a vitals blocker. It would have spared you a great deal of trouble."

The tall man released his vexation. Of course; what a fool he had been. The Force had warned him of the danger – but Tord's ploy was brilliant. By imbibing the stasis-engendering drug, he had protected himself from suffocation when the room had been emptied of air. And his willingness to be sealed in the chamber with his prospective prisoner had served as a smokescreen for his true intentions.

It was diabolically intelligent – too much so for the Nemoidian. Something was wrong with the whole scenario, something… elusive. Elsewhere.

Ghurb's slatted pupils widened. "We need to know how much… information… about our affairs you have relayed to Coruscant."

Qui-Gon feigned indifference. "Who is to say I've reported anything?"

His offhand statement sparked vibrant suspicion in his would be interrogators. Ghurb's sickly green face attained the color of putrid swamp water. "He has already told the Senate everything! There will be a Jedi invasion any minute! We are doomed!"

Ghurb was clearly not only a coward but very weak-minded.

"You would do well to release me," the Jedi master intoned, bearing down on the Nemoidian's mind with all the persuasive power of the Force.

But Ghurb balked, wringing his hands and pacing in a distraught circle.

"Pull yourself together!" Tord barked at his nervous comrade. "How much have you reported, Jedi? We have ways of making you talk."

This idle threat evoked a snort of disdain, which cost Qui-Gon another painful jolt from the binders. He focused his efforts upon Tord's equally feeble wits. "Release me now and I will sue for leniency on your behalf."

It was a suggestion that would have bent durasteel – and yet, the mind trick was repelled as though by an invisible ward, a fortification compacted of wild, bone-deep terror and some obscure and unfamiliar artifice. Qui-Gon recoiled as though physically shocked.

Little wonder he had not sensed Tord's duplicity earlier; the Nemoidian's mind was encircled and penetrated by a noxious miasma of Dark energy.

"What are you doing?" the Trade Federation mogul snarled, sensing the tug of war within his own psyche. "Answer my question or you _will_ regret it."

Protocol dictated that no answer be made to such threats, but the Jedi master had perhaps spent too much time in his former padawan's company, for he found himself characteristically throwing standard procedure to the wind and uncharacteristically channeling Obi-Wan's habitual insouciance. "It could not possibly be more regrettable than your face," he blithely informed his captor.

Tord tweaked something in the control panel set into the wall; the Jedi shouted in agony as lightning seemed to course through his very blood. He would have sagged in place had not the grav-repulsors kept him suspended in the glimmering field. Still, having sampled his insolent young friend's methods, he could see the subtle appeal of taunting a captor, despite his own gravely delivered lectures against such imprudent deployment of wit. The pain now had a sweet aftertaste of triumph to it, a honeyed bouquet upon sour wine.

Tord all but hissed with resentment – Nemoidian personal vanity was notoriously boundless - but Ghurb unexpectedly came to the Jedi master's rescue.

"Are you brainless?" he accosted his associate. "Did you not listen to what _he_ said? You cannot make a Jedi cooperate like this…. we must wait."

The two Nemoidians glared at each other for a long span of seconds. Tord deflated.

"It will take time to rendezvous. What if it is too late?"

Ghurb clutched at his ribs with both hands. "We must obey him. He said he can _break_ a Jedi. He will know what to do."

And there was such conviction, and such abject dread, in the reptilian's shaking voice that Qui-Gon knew himself to be in very deep trouble, despite his complete ignorance as to the identity of this mysterious "him."


	17. Chapter 17

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 17**

The rain's glittering bead curtains parted, unveiling the harsh silhouettes of six strangers clad in ruddy armor, spikes and crenellations hammered into rough-hewn metal, rivets and straps studding and crossing the overlaid plates. They were _huge…_ taller than Wookiees, just as broad, scarred flesh peeping between greaves and gauntlets, slatted yellow eyes gleaming within deep visors, like the demons rumored to inhabit festival lanterns on Felucia.

Obi-Wan frowned at the spectacle, reality and nightmare blurred together with the mud and blood smearing his sodden clothing and hair, with the angry rumbling of the starless skies.

The hulking figures stopped, forming a half-ring about him. Several of the tallest removed their helms, and peered down at him in astonishment, hairless ridged heads turning this way and that as they spoke with one another in urgent yet strangely hushed tones, their native tongue guttural and thick.

A marathon run… lightning and rain… a battle of one against a dozen monstrous, soulless foes… and now _this?_ Actual _Paxellian_ legionaries, straight from a historical documentary holo?

He couldn't help it; black humor bubbled within his chest, and gently erupted. He chuckled, recognizing that the joke was on him, that the Force had a predilection for absurd irony to beat even his own. His soft expression of mirth _hurt_ like the blazes, too, jostling his dislocated shoulder and exacerbating a hundred smaller bruises and sprains. But he was already in the grip of incipient hysteria, so the fact only doubled his bitter amusement.

The Paxellians drew back a pace, abruptly reverent. He sat straighter, all hope of standing abandoned.

The leader sank on one knee. "_Rothschall-dom,"_he grunted. "O _Olokk-dom."_

Obi-Wan's jaw dropped. _Olokk._ God of mischief and chaos, Paxellian divinity of berserker battle frenzies and trickery. "Oh Force," he breathed, suppressing a renewed and even stronger bout of laughter. They thought he was….

Well, then.

"Greetings." But of course they hadn't a word of Basic. He tried Huttese. "Achuta."

All six mighty warriors, any one of whom could have killed him on the spot, one-handed, sank to the squelching mud and touched their hard-ridged foreheads to the ground before him. The foremost addressed him with visible trepidation, in stumbling Huttese, accepting without question that his own native deity had chosen a foreign tongue as means of communication. But then, Olokk was notorious for shape-changing, preferring the forms of small animals and 'weak" species such as humans or other soft-skinned variants, one aspect of his treacherous and unpredictable nature.

"You lord… " – a brief gesture encompassing the post-battle chaos- "You have made this. See you, we watch."

The truth was the truth. "Tagwa." Yes, he had. He sought the right word, racking sluggish memory. "Na yoka." A joke, a whimsy. He waved a hand at the scattered debris. "Nobata hodrudda." No competition.

The Paxellian and his companions exchanged uneasy glances. "We come for other warlord."

The young Jedi frowned over this. "There is no other warlord. Only me."

However, his assertion was met with respectful denial. "Other come. We hear of raids. Some other come before us. We kill him, take his loot."

Ah. They had heard the same reports that had made their way as far as the Core… if Niffrendi had sought to hoodwink the Galactic Senate by perpetuating the myth of outside attacks, it had been a dangerous game. Their barbaric near neighbors were prurient enough to follow the gossip to its source, supposing a rival tribe to be at the root of the trouble. His mind raced, seeking a way to diffuse the situation.

"This world is under my protection. Mine."

But the leader only redoubled his enthusiasm for bloodshed. "Then the raiders are trespassing. Blasphemers. We will kill them and pour their blood like wine for you."

Lightning seared overhead, followed by deafening thunder. Obi-Wan shuddered, feeling reality slide perilously beneath him again, blackness lurking at the corners of vision. He needed _rest_ and warmth. The Paxellian crept forward on his knees, poking one clawed digit at the young god's blood-soaked trousers. "A drink?"

Thirst blossomed at the word. He nodded, not protesting when a flask was pressed to his lips. Molten alcoholic liquid coursed down his throat, blazing a trail of heat from tongue to belly, swiftly suffusing chest and sinuses. He choked and then covered his shock with a rough, hacking laugh.

"Good? Is good?" the brutish warrior inquired, worriedly.

The stuff made _fermis_ look like warm bantha milk. Obi-Wan cleared his throat and blinked away tears. _Stars' end. _ "I will go with you," he decided. He needed to know more, to determine their intentions and their numbers. "Now."

Obeisant, the scouting party lifted him bodily from the ground and made for their outlandish ship at a rolling jog, while Niffrendi's skies raged onward in perpetual tantrum.

* * *

Qui-Gon made no less than a dozen attempts to override the containment field's control mechanism, and then to scramble the generator source beneath him – but the infernal binders conspired to thwart him, sending an unpredictable jolt of energy through his limbs at the crucial moment every time. Had the pain been continuous, it would have been much simpler to sublimate and control his autonomic response; as it was, the sharp surge of electric fire was a capricious and bedeviling tormentor, a gremlin determinedly wreaking minor havoc upon his power to access the Force.

The designer of his ingenious prison knew Jedi limits very, very well indeed.

He pushed the disturbing thought aside and allowed his awareness to expand, past the walls of his featureless cell, into the void of space and the storm mantled planet below, into the vibrant plenum of Light that surrounded and penetrated all things. Within that empyrean expanse, there was neither distance nor size, nor the separation of self and other into impenetrable singularities. The Living Force was a textured and flowing music, wind and chimes at once, water and dancing reflection. Within its entrancing complexity he sought a long-familiar presence, the most proximate beacon-light within a dizzying constellation.

_Obi-Wan. _ Recognition flooded back across an invisible bond, and then an echo of sloppily shielded pain. For a moment, the prior argument was forgotten, reduced to a trivial debate over historical details- mind brushed against mind, images and impressions fleeting through the Force like stark lightning.

The tenuous connection was shattered by Shlomm Tord's unannounced return.

"So. Jedi," the tall Nemoidian simpered, pacing in a wide circle about the perimeter, dark robe hem dragging forlornly behind him. "My consultant informs me that your kind travel and work in pairs. Where is your counterpart?"

The tall man did not deign to give a reply, and his impatient interlocutor made sure he was punished for it.

Panting, he fixed the villainous schemer with a bland look.

"Cooperation will serve your best interests," Tord warned, puffing out his concave chest. "I realize that you will not yield to our … persuasion on your own behalf. But I assure you that we have extensive resources at our disposal. We will find your friend, and detain him as well."

The Jedi master wondered what the real likelihood of this proposal might be – and how many more insults Tord would hypothetically suffer at the second captive's hands – but he remained outwardly impassive.

The Nemoidian paced round to face him again, lisping heavily as he leveled his next threat. "We only need _one_ of you. Tell me where he is, and I _promise_ he will die quickly." Two glazed eyes were half-hooded by translucent membranes, narrowing to a pair of vicious crescents. "Otherwise, I will make sure you watch him suffer, for a very long time."

But the ultimatum fell on deaf ears. "A good businessman would know not to drive a bargain without merchandise."

Tord's mouth twisted into a contemptuous zigzag. "Mockery will not endear you to _him,"_ he wheezed, smugly, and then swept out in a rustle of faded opulence.

* * *

The Paxellian ship was a marvel of engineering, though not of comfort. Its interior was outfitted with a minimum of insulating bulkhead material, and crude benches bolted to the deck plates. Circuits and controls stood exposed beneath the simple console; debris and …stains… were apparent in nooks and crannies, cracks and scars upon the welded frame. It was a ship kept in perfect functional condition, but never cleaned or cosseted, much like its owners' battle scarred and tattooed bodies.

Much was apparent to the young Jedi, now that they were closeted together in the tight space of the vessel's interior. The scouts were, he sensed, no more than a bachelor group of males out on their first run, possibly hoping to prove themselves outside their tribe or clan's established territory. Their bravado and crudity concealed an underlying insecurity and lack of experience; he concluded that they were his _peers_ in the barbaric piratical culture, warriors just past the trials of initiation but still unseasoned.

And that had already worked to his advantage. Surely their elders might not so easily have mistaken him for a supernatural being. Not that he was about to complain – his unexpected ascension to divinity had, after all, saved his life.

He projected a steady impression of _power and esoteric knowledge,_ drawing upon his arsenal of Shadow's skills not so much to influence his companions' minds against their wills, but rather to enhance the point of view to which they had chosen to cling. Affirmation of another's prejudice was much easier than outright compulsion - a subtle manipulation, one felt as personal conviction, manifest truth. The Force shuddered subliminally, weaving illusion among them, a veil wrought of superstition and cunning.

He had no time to reflect upon the impressive skill of the pilot, who swiftly punched the Raptor upward through a miniscule gap in the roiling storm's spiral labyrinth, for three of the others were busily tending Olokk's injuries. They had ripped open his blood soaked trouser leg and smeared some hellish ointment onto the open wound before he could issue objection; the resulting flood of numbing cold all but took his breath away, though it effectively blocked the nerves. More of the spitfire distillation was poured down his throat, and a pair of rough hands seized his injured arm and slammed the shoulder joint back into its socket with expert ruthlessness.

"_Kriff!"_ he yelped, nearly doubling over.

The Paxellians blanched.

He clenched his teeth, the taste of their vile drink heavy on his tongue. "You have done well," he gasped, holding his chin high. For a moment, blackness swirled before his vision again; he had lost too much blood to be playing these games. But he had no choice, did he? And Qui-Gon needed his help. That much he had sensed clearly, in that one strange moment of connection…

"I will reward you richly," he declared, as was clearly expected. Olokk traditionally remunerated those who healed his battle wounds with treasure, slaves, and a share in his own glory. The young Paxellians cheered, pounding fists against their ornate breastplates.

"Let me see your armor," he commanded, peering critically at the nearest example. The owner stood at proud attention, slatted yellow eyes glinting and long nostrils flaring with excitement.

Obi-Wan stared: what he had initially taken for complex glyphs or decorative motifs were in fact cannibalized cyberboards and pathway integrators, vocabulator cards and processor stacks. "Droid brains," he muttered, fascinated.

The Paxellian grinned, revealing yellow teeth. "Yes, lord. We have destroyed the false mockeries of life. We have kept the Oath."

"You are loyal servants," the injured god improvised, riding on the quicksilver prompting of instinct. "You deserve great glory."

"We will find it!" the young warrior proclaimed, his companions grunting and nodding in agreement. "The Publikos will not stop us! We will plunder their worlds and make them our own. The Worms and the Beasts will fall before us."

Hutts and Togorians, presumably. Obi-Wan scowled; the resurgence of a Paxellian threat in the Rims would pose a serious threat to the delicate balance of power in outlying systems, worlds difficult to protect and patrol in any case, principalities often in crisis as criminal powers vied to wrest them from Republic control. The _borders_ of the galactic commonwealth were at best a shady region, a pioneer's realm where might and right exchanged roles with alarming rapidity. The addition of _another_ contender for power and sparse riches could be disastrous….

His brooding was interrupted by a sickening lurch; the ship bucked and shuddered beneath them as they twisted free of the turbulent upper atmosphere, clawing their way free of the storm and into clear space above. The pilot turned in his seat, eagerly awaiting orders, greed and wild ambition swirling in the Force, filling the cramped cockpit with a fey and reckless spirit, the unrestrained aggression of youth.

Olokk grinned fiercely. "We will punish the trespassers," he commanded, to the undisguised delight of his new minions.


	18. Chapter 18

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 18**

Niffrendi's tortured surface rolled slowly beneath the Paxellian scout ship as it cruised in a low contraequatorial orbit. Heaven's Scythe swung in widening coils, clouds writhing and churning as actinic fire flailed the world's back, laying fluctuating stripes of wrathful light horizon to horizon.

Obi-Wan stood, a trifle unsteadily, between the Paxellian pilot and his massive copilot. The three moons appeared ahead, a cluster of misshapen eggs. And beyond them…

"There," he said, eyeing the spheroid Core ship balefully. A thrill of knowledge passed down his spine: Qui-Gon was aboard the ominous metallic orb, and in peril.

"This is a ship? Of trespassers?" one of the hulking raiders inquired, squinting through the viewport at the unlikely shape.

"Yes. Brigands and thieves, and makers of blasphemous automata. Their ship is full of droids, and they mingle with them as with living beings."

All those hours of debate with Ben To Li, and all the laborious historical research antecedent and consequent thereto, had paid off: he was familiar enough with the basic tenets of Paxellian culture to play upon their sensibilities. His tiny band of warriors murmured and growled in outrage.

"They must be destroyed," the bold leader declared, "And their filth unmade."

Or at least, that was the gist of his declaration; it was difficult to say how much of their thoughts he gleaned from their halting Huttese, and how much he directly intuited through the Force. In any case, the Nemoidians were about to receive a very unpleasant visitation.

They sped forward, quickly coming within hailing range. The standard automated request for identification was summarily ignored by the pirates, along with the reiterated demand, and the warning to veer off or face defensive countermeasures.

"They mean it," the young Jedi warned his crew – but there was little need. The pilot clutched at the yoke with huge, calloused hands, expertly rolling away from the first two blasts, and then executing a series of evasive maneuvers wild enough to rival the suicidal mating dance of paired thranctills. The Raptor dove and spun, wove and looped, six of its seven occupants giving voice to primordial war cries as they hurtled beneath the cannon and slammed straight through one of the open cargo bay doors, breaching the blue magcon field in a shower of sparks and noise and then grinding to a sickening halt across the cavernous interior, carving a long skidding scar into the deck.

Droids poured forth from their guard stations, gangly bodies clutching blaster rifles, conical heads twitching and bobbing atop spindle necks.

The Paxellian crew charged forth, energy pikes and spears, heavy blasters, and other blunt barbaric implements at the ready. They required no urging onward, nor did they spare a single glance backward at their wilting deity as he followed in their frantic wake at a far more collected, cautious pace.

The droids fired a volley of shots at the berserker battalion, but the Paxellians ducked behind lightweight shields of some supple material, a shimmering barrier sufficient to deflect or absorb the plasma bolts. Undaunted, the young warriors charged down their foes, falling upon them with unrestrained savagery. Droid bits were strewn like confetti and falling fireworks; the Paxellians hollered an unearthly curse in their native language and thundered onward, into the adjoining corridor.

Claxons blared, emergency lights flashed. Obi-Wan discreetly trailed behind his enraged comrades, unable to stem the tide of their aggression even had he cared to do so. His own reserves were all but depleted, while his less than genteel acquaintances' seemed to be refreshed by the prospect of limitless violence. He crept down the passage and then ducked into another, flitting from level to level, corridor to corridor, his steps guided by the Force, by that unmistakable polestar of Qui-Gon's presence in the universal light.

He crept closer, closer, and then halted abruptly as his progress brought him to the threshold of a barricaded door. It bore all the hallmark characteristics of a detention bloc entrance, and any lingering doubts were dispelled by the sound of an imperious Nemoidian voice raised in whining condescension to its underlings.

"Intruders on the storage decks! Send another security squadron down there immediately! Don't blather at me, you idiot, _do_ something!"

The tramp of droid feet echoed overhead, as further soldiery was sent to address the Paxellian threat. Storage decks were located deep inside a Core ship's spherical hull; he had to grin a little at the crazed raiders' sheer battle prowess, or else at the droids' utter ineptitude. He pressed himself against a support column as the doors swept open to admit a foursome of automated guards and a short, disgruntled Nemoidian in sumptuous robes. This individual made off in the opposite direction, shadowed by his pathetic and clanking honor guard.

A moment later Obi-Wan had pried the panels open again with the Force, and stood swaying in the center of a small antechamber. Heart hammering against his ribs, he surveyed the surveillance screens imbedded in the circular console, noting the location of the only occupied cell. A rapid search of the lockers built into one wall yielded a most essential treasure: Qui-Gon's lightsaber, stowed away in a compartment all its own. He splayed the fingers of one hand against the lock and _pulled,_ wrenching the seal out of place.

The 'saber's crystal chimed inaudibly as his fingers closed about the hilt, the handgrip smoothed by _years_ of use, the weight of the weapon proportionately greater than the perfect balance of his own.

He leaned against the row of sealed cabinets, pulse throbbing in his temples and heart laboring against his ribs. It would not _do_ to pass out here, before he had completed his quest. He summoned strength out of thin air and turned to the last corridor, stalking down its dim length with grim determination, nape hair prickling as he drew near the last door on the right.

It was open- and what lay beyond made his lip curl in protective outrage.

* * *

Even when Ghurb had hurried away to address some unspecified security threat, Shlomm Tord lingered. The cruel Nemoidian was manifestly enjoying himself, despite his obvious lack of _success_ as an interrogator. His mashed features contorted into a leer as he subjected his helpless Jedi captive to an excruciatingly extended one-sided interview.

"Why did the Republic send you?" he demanded, for the tenth time.

No answer; he jabbed viciously at the pulse intensity regulator, sending a searing jolt of fire through his victim's body. The resulting cry of pain had the Nemoidian dancing in place with glee.

"You pitiful scum!" he gloated, relishing his position of power. "This will teach you to meddle in Trade Federation business! Tell me, what report have you sent to the Galactic Senate?"

No answer; the penalty was predictably more severe.

"Where is the _other_ Jedi?" Tord shouted, viscous spittle spraying from the corners of his jagged mouth. "I know there is one!"

Qui-Gon merely glared, and then arched against the ensuing agony, causing the pain to redouble. Perspiration soaked his tunics and hair; surely his limbs would be trembling uncontrollably were they not rigidly frozen in place. And then… against all probability.. he felt it, like the glimmer of a rising sun, a bright disc breaking triumphant over dark's horizon. One corner of his mouth twitched upward in giddy welcome, in unembarrassed relief.

The Nemodian foolishly misinterpreted his reaction as a crack in his stoic resolve.

"I'll ask you one more time," Tord sneered, leaning forward avidly, glazed pupils dilated and hands clenching at his sides. "_Where_ is your associate?"

"Right behind you," a quiet voice answered, velveted steel in every precise syllable. The reply was accented by a double snap and hiss as two 'saber blades leapt to furious life. The Nemoidian pivoted on the spot, posture rigid with horror.

Obi-Wan looked an outright mess, but his double-salute was as jaunty as ever. He flashed a full grin at the unfortunate victim of his private jest and advanced a single step, both weapons growling throatily in the cell's cool air.

Tord shrieked like a skinned grog and went scuttling for the far end of the room, pressing himself vainly against the wall and banging a fist upon the comm panel. "Security! Security detail to the detention level!"

The young Jedi spared the containment field controls a brief and disgusted frown before opting for the _direct approach._ He buried both 'sabers hilt deep in the generator, reducing the machine to molten scrap and the shimmering blue mag-field to fizzling oblivion.

Qui-Gon stumbled heavily, limbs uncooperative and uncoordinated as he all but fell forward into Obi-Wan's supporting grip.

"Easy, Master."

Tord made a dash for freedom and was thrown into the corner again at a flick of the young Jedi's wrist. "No you don't."

"Obi-Wan… what are you _doing_ here?"

The silly question was met with raised brows. "Rescuing you, of course. You really must be more careful, Master Jinn."

The tall man snorted, strength sluggishly trickling back to him with his returning circulation. He held firm to his companion's shoulder, eyeing the bloodied and tattered remnants of the young Knight's clothing. "The same would seem to apply to you, my friend."

Obi-Wan gravely deactivated the emerald blade and pressed its hilt into the older man's hand. "What? This? Just a bit of 'saber practice against remotes."

They slipped through the door, sealing it and burning out the locking mechanism. Tord sobbed and raged on the other side of the heavy panel, still calling futilely for security.

"I'm sorry we can't arrest him," Obi-Wan gritted out, leaning heavily against one wall. "We're going to have to leave the party early." He kicked aside a stray droid head, which skittered down the polished hallway floor.

"You're not well," Qui-Gon accused him, the Force amply testifying to the truth of his statement.

"I'm fine," his companion panted. "…And you're just as bad, so it doesn't count."

They stared each other down, dashing tunic sleeves across sweat-slicked brows in unison.

The Jedi master chuckled. "Like master, like padawan."

An explosion, or a barrage of heavy blaster fire, erupted on the other side of the thin bulkhead wall. The Jedi exchanged a look in which dark humor and urgent practical resolution were equally blended, and then dashed away down the corridor.

Or rather, limped away down the corridor.

"Where next?"

"Here. No, here. Blast it."

"This way," Qui-Gon decided. They hadn't the energy to bicker any further.

"Easy."

"I'm fine, Master."

"Hm."

They shuffled forward, leaning upon one another and occasionally stopping to rest against a wall, breathing ragged and loud in the echoing Core ship's interior. "You brought reinforcements, I presume?" the tall man asked.

Obi-Wan nodded, perspiration trickling down his collar now. The Force was awash with pain and exhaustion, the last grains of endurance swiftly running through an hourglass. "Paxellian marauders," he explained, between heaving inhalations. A forced grin. "They've abominable manners."

"Paxellians?" Qui-Gon repeated.

"I'll explain later," his companion grated out, staggering slightly. "We've got to get to that hangar…"

They made no very heroic entrance to the docking bay in question, bedraggled and weary as they were. A pair of sentry droids posted on duty blocked their path with blasters raised.

"Halt. Halt."

The Jedi glanced sideways at one another, and then shrugged. Either man held out a hand, and the guards went sailing into the high girders, where they smashed to bits. Droid circuits and plating pinged and bounced off the scored decks as the pair clambered heavily up the scout ship's boarding ramp.

"_This_ is our escape vehicle?" Qui-Gon teased his young counterpart.

The young Knight shook his head, face suddenly grey. "You'll have to pilot," he whispered.

The Jedi master dragged him over the hatchway and slammed the ramp control. "I thought _you_ were rescuing _me." _ He tightened his grip.

"I just did," Obi-Wan insisted, soundlessly, a moment before he collapsed in a dead faint.

Qui-Gon hauled him into the copilot's seat, strapped him in, and brought the foreign ship's systems online, gut instinct guiding his hands over unfamiliar yoke and console. The Raptor rose on repulsors, wobbled, and then dove through the mag-con field in a blaze of shorting shields and explosive thruster-flare.


	19. Chapter 19

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 19**

Qui-Gon piloted the ungainly Raptor down toward Niffrendi's crazed dome, eyeing the closing gaps between black and roiling masses of cloud with a fluttering pit deep in his gut. It was just as well that Obi-Wan had delegated the onerous task of piloting to _him_ this time – by playing the trump card of total incapacitation – for even the Jedi master was subject to some apprehension in the face of such titanic chaos.

He set his jaw and plunged downward, disappearing into the nebulous upper atmosphere. Lightning seemed to taunt him, appearing like spectral fingers in the periphery of vision; more than once he shied away form imagined destruction, jinking and juking a ragged path through the narrow tunnel-gap between two storm fronts. Black curtains closed behind him even as he plummeted for the distant surface, the Paxellian ship's drives rumbling low and ominously as he pushed the engines to their limit, siphoning strength and stamina from the Living Force, from the raging skies themselves.

Twisting, diving, rolling, he tumbled down through noise and blinding light, buffeted by gusting wind, by violent pressure pockets – and was _spat_ out of the roiling storm's eye, hurtling wildly over blurred landscape. Mountains flashed below, panning out to a wide plain painted sickly grey beneath a smothered sun; rain bleared the viewport, hail rattling off the superheated hull; they lost altitude rapidly as console lights flashed and gauges dropped to empty.

_No more fuel._

His landing was a masterpiece of inelegance, a controlled fall that ploughed a soft gash into the glacial plain's sodden surface, sending up twin tails of mud and grit behind them, The Raptor lurched to a standstill, spinning through a half-circle as it skidded drunkenly into a lopsided landing.

Obi-Wan jerked awake with the harsh motion, grunting in protest as the crash harness jostled injured ribs and shoulder. Rain hammered against the fuselage, a grim counterpoint to the sparking and bleeping of shipboard alarms.

"Come," the tall man urged his companion. "We need to find shelter."

The young Knight blinked, scowling muzzily at the dim cockpit interior. "I've missed something."

"Nothing worth writing home about. Easy, now." Qui-Gon hauled his former padawan to his feet, slinging an arm about his waist and guiding their shuffling steps through the hold to the ramp. "We aren't too far from Kerrn's people… just stay with me a little longer."

They were drenched to the bone so soon as they set foot outside the ship; Niffrendi's fickle heavens showered down icy torrents upon their heads, plastering hair to foreheads, weighting their clothing with sodden cold and miring their boots in sucking mud.

Qui-Gon cursed silently as Obi-Wan sagged alongside him, vitality waning as the elements exacted severe punishment. Their predicament was a grim reminder that even a Jedi was vulnerable, not exempt from nature's dictate and law: they were but creatures of flesh and bone, fragile vessels for a boundless Light.

They sank down together, the younger all but senseless with exhaustion.

"Qui-Gon," he muttered.

The tall man knelt, calling upon the Force, reaching for borrowed time, grace to close the gap between need and present circumstance. His companion slumped against him, utterly spent.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too. But we're not finished yet."

The young Knight gazed down at their thoroughly soiled attire. "Filthy," he observed, plaintively.

Qui-Gon spared him a bitter chuckle. The rain cascaded down their faces, weeping trails dripping from matted hair, clinging in droplets to the older man's beard. "I'll grant you: this is a far cry from Chandrila."

"Not our most glorious moment," Obi-Wan remarked, dryly, head lolling against the older man's chest.

Perhaps not, but the Jedi master was not done yet. He gritted his teeth, slung his ailing friend over his broad shoulders, and staggered upright, slogging doggedly onward. The Force _would_ provide a solution.

His steps slowed, dragged, eroded into a wistful shuffle. The rain softened to a despairing drizzle, its forlorn pattering a fit accompaniment to his rasping breath.

And then, faint but unwavering, a tiny lantern glow appeared over a shadowed ridge. The tall man peered through the darkness and obscuring mist at the weird apparition, halting in place.

"He-llo!" Kerrn's voice carried over the empty plain. "By damnation, is that you? What in the karking hells are you still doin' out here? Git!"

Gratitude infused his limbs with w final burst of strength; Qui-Gon hurried forward to the rendezvous, Obi-Wan moaning softly as his weight shifted.

Kerrn carried an antique lantern, the sort powered by a removable chem.-cell. "For kark's sakes!" he exclaimed upon their mutually astonished reunion. "You two look like … never mind. This way – we got another entrance to the Holes down here."

He led the way down a steep embankment, wending down a narrow trail into a deep gorge. At the rocky bottom of this natural canyon lay a riverbed already shin-deep with runoff from the rain, and a small cave hewn into the cliff-side, one sealed with a pair of rusting blast doors. They waded and sloshed their way to the threshold, Kerrn's bobbing lantern in the lead.

"How did you know to look for us?" Qui-Gon inquired, quizzically.

The elder waved a gnarled hand. "Lookout saw a ship crash… thought it might be more raiders. I weren't expecting _you _ folk to show up outta nowhere again." His eyes narrowed, and he blocked the open doorway. An inviting gust of warmth wafted up from the tunnel beyond. "But you ain't gladiators atall, now are 'ya? The truth now."

The Jedi master bowed his head. "No. I will explain later."

"Thought not," Kerrn grunted, waving them inside. "Well? Git in – the Scythe's not done yet. Only fools and idjits will be outside the next day and a half, and I hope you ain't neither of those either."

Qui-Gon heartily concurred with that optimistic wish.

* * *

The Wormholes at this end were rougher, the tunnel walls hewn haphazardly from the living rock, the various twists and turns of the sloped passages lit only by temporary glow-lamps set in ancient brackets. Kerrn led the way, finally waving an age-spotted hand at a dark nook offset from the passage where the greater number of Folk now huddled miserably around their portable heat generators.

"I'll fetch ya a spare," the elder gruffly promised, though it was doubtful there truly was an extra. In all likelihood, the old machine he did eventually produce was his personal property.

Qui-Gon bowed low in gratitude, and carefully lowered Obi-Wan to the hard floor while Kerrn coaxed the rheumatic heater into life and set a dim glow-lantern in one corner. "Here's a blanket or two. I'll rassle up Ayya and send her to ya.. She's got some medico savvy."

"Thank you." The generator reeked of hot metal and burnt plastoid, but it quickly softened the chill edge of the air, and dried the Jedi master's damp tunics and cloak. He made short work of his task, stripping away his injured companion's stiff and filthy garments and making a swift assessment of the damages. He grimaced at the sticky mess upon the young Jedi's thigh – a messy puncture wound had been crudely treated with stinking and greasy ointment, a poultice intended perhaps to heal but obviously inflaming the insulted flesh further. There were various minor abrasions and bruises, but two ribs looked off-kilter, and the right shoulder was swollen, bruised, and tender- possibly a dislocation that had also been badly set. Probing deeper with the Force, he discovered that his daring young friend had managed to complete his "rescue" mission while simultaneously battling significant blood loss and a raging fever.

"Obi-Wan," he growled, despite himself. When had the boy – man – learned such reckless disregard for limits? Or had he ever unlearned it?

His displeasure stirred the Force and wakened his companion from delirious semi-sleep. Blue eyes struggled to focus on his face, and then listed sideways, taking in the marbled mineral veins in the walls, the flickering glow-lamp, the steadily chugging generator. A furrow appeared between the young Knight's brows. "Where?" he inquired, thoughts slogging through turgid drifts of exhaustion and pain.

"We are with the Folk," Qui-Gon informed him. "Don't fuss."

Which admonition went unheeded. Obi-Wan struggled into sitting position, clutching one of the blankets about his shoulders and hunching beneath its folds. "Sith spit," he muttered, dropping his forehead against raised knees. Splitting headache resounded across their bond.

The Jedi master rolled back on his heels. "You need healing – let me do what I am able. We may be here some time, while the Scythe lasts."

"I _can_ take care of myself," the younger man protested, voice cracking with weariness.

And there they were, back at the beginning of an endless circle, in which present and past chased one another's tails across the boundless stars, the new and the old at odds with one another when there was no true difference. Focus determined reality.

Qui-Gon looked past his obstreperous companion, into the Force, then smiled ruefully. "Nobody doubts it, Master Kenobi."

Obi-Wan's chin came up, gaze meeting the older man's briefly.

The tall man plunged boldly onward. "And I am deeply in your debt – the rescue was … very welcome."

Their generator's feeble warmth paled in comparison to that suffusing the Force between them. "My pleasure. Though you now owe me one. Not that we're counting."

"Not that we're counting."

"You look wretched yourself, anyway."

Qui-Gon's mouth quirked upward at the corners. "Ever the diplomat."

"Vanity ill becomes a Jedi. I speak but the truth."

After all, they were both more comfortable sidling alongside certain truths than uttering them openly. Qui-Gon eased into the newly forged accord, testing its resilience. "If we are embracing honesty, then I think it behooves you to accept help."

The young Knight bowed to the wisdom of this edict with all the grace befitting a Jedi. "You are right," he sighed, one brow arching upward sardonically. "I've had better days." He allowed himself to be eased back down, and suffered the subsequent coddling stoically.

"What in stars' name is this?" Qui-Gon wondered aloud, rubbing the odiferous salve between thumb and forefinger.

"Oh… Paxellian wonder-liniment. Kills the pain… microbes… every pathetic life form in a ten klick radius..."

The Jedi master frowned. "You should not allow non-humans to practice traditional remedies on your person; this is obviously mildly toxic to your system. Inter-species medicine is a tricky affair."

Obi-Wan gazed listlessly at the textured ceiling. "Oh. I hadn't thought of that."

_Which is one reason among many that you still need guidance._ But the tall man did not dare speak the words aloud.

His former student sensed the thought anyway. A soft gust of _something_ escaped his lips, and he addressed the stony roof, carefully avoiding eye contact. "I know."

"You do?"

"Yes." There was no acrimony in the reply, only a wistful acceptance.

"Is it so bad as all that?"

The young Jedi's head rolled sideways. He closed his eyes. "No. Yes. Maybe….I'm tired. I'm sorry, I can't – "

"Shh. We can sort out the details later."

"Focus… present moment," Obi-Wan slurred, the faintest of smirks tugging at his mouth even as he slid toward oblivion.

"Brat."

For a long moment he thought that his soft rejoinder had gone unheard – but his young companion could not resist the allure of having the last word. His brows quirked upwards haughtily as Qui-Gon leaned down to hear the barely voiced reply.

"…It's _Master_ Brat now, if you please."

And Force help him if he didn't laugh aloud at the irreverent jest.

"Go to sleep," he commanded, drawing the Force's restorative power about them in a cocoon of golden radiance, a gentle and healing embrace to which they gladly and swiftly surrendered.

When Ayya peeked into their humble cloister a few minutes later, both men were fast asleep, faces drawn with exhaustion and yet softened by an inexplicable peace. She spread another fraying thermal blanket over the pair of them and tiptoed away, unwilling to disturb a scene of such unparalleled tranquility.


	20. Chapter 20

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 20**

Qui-Gon woke, ravenous and sore, the Force kindling anew within him. He stretched, a spine-popping yawn worthy of a niffenbear emerging from hibernation, and then checked on his padawan.

_Former_ padawan.

The young Knight slumbered on in the grip of fever, cheeks flushed and brow slightly furrowed. The older man smoothed tangled hair back and pressed a hand against the sleeper's forehead, probing gently with the Force. He released a slow breath; he would do all that he could _here,_ but it was imperative that they find a proper Jedi healer soon.

He ran hands over his own rumpled tunics and tabards, cinching the fabric tight and adjusting his belt. He could feel the raging storm overhead, the Scythe in full swing. They were trapped here underground until the heavens showed clemency – run to earth like humble creatures of the field. He knelt to meditate, centering himself in the present moment, waiting for the frantic revelations of the day gone by to precipitate into some greater unity, to settle into a silt of understanding.

Kerrn appeared some time later, rousing the Jedi master from his trance.

"We got gruel brewing, if yer hungered." A curt nod. "How's the son?"

A perceptive inference. Qui-Gon raised a brow.

"I got yer number. Gladiators ain't the half of it. Yer two never even been slaves, either, I'll wager."

"I am sorry for the deception; it seemed a prudent measure."

Kerrn snorted, weight sagging comfortably against the open doorway. "So? What's the story, then? Ye promised me truth last night."

The tall man rose to his feet, joints cracking. "We are Jedi from the Galactic Republic."

The Folk's leader goggled. "No kark?"

"No." a short hesitance, in which he decided that no good would come of further oblique communication. He opted for the direct approach. "We were sent to investigate the rumored slave raids on your world. Our Order is… concerned."

"Well, I'm damn glad _someone_ is," the Wanderer exclaimed, vehemence edging his gruff tone. "Not that much good'll come of it," he grumbled, quelling his own spurt of enthusiasm with a cynical snort. "Folk don't matter _that_ much to the Core."

Qui-Gon inclined his head, unwilling to honey the truth. "I am afraid that is true; however, the balance of power in this region _is _ of importance to the Chancellor and the Senate – and what we have discovered will disturb them more greatly than I anticipated."

"Eh?"

There was nothing like blunt truth to make an impression. "The raids on your people were staged by your own planetary government, as a ruse to solicit Republic approval for a standing militia."

Kerrn exploded into anger. "Those damn treacherous pizzmahs! Killing the Folk for the sake of some politico's scheme? I'll.. I'll… I'll kill the karking chizzssk eaters!"

The Jedi master held up a restraining hand. "That would be unwise, and ultimately ineffective. I believe you are safe for the time being. The other conspirators in the scheme have been compromised, at least temporarily."

Obi-Wan stirred, coughing wetly as he pushed upright. "We need to contact the Council," he croaked, barely registering Kerrn's presence.

"You need to rest." Qui-Gon crouched beside him, urging compliance with a firm hand. "Lie down. We cannot punch a signal through the ion storm in any case – our report will have to wait."

The elder harrumphed, chewing the cud of unwelcome news, and excused himself with a muttered promise to fetch them some breakfast.

Obi-Wan lay scowling at the textured roof, prodding experimentally at his own ribs and then hissing in frustration. "Blast it. _Blast it."_

"You are not, nor are you expected to be, invulnerable and omnipotent," the older man counseled him. "Lower your expectations."

His young friend managed a shaky breath of laughter. "Speak for yourself... _I _ am a powerful divinity."

Qui-Gon gladly took the bait. "Impersonating a deity is most _certainly_ against the Precepts," he chided his companion. "You scandalize me."

This clearly numbered among those things Obi-Wan "had not thought of" in the throes of inspiration. The young Jedi's mien darkened, a shadow of self recrimination scudding over his wan features. "Oh… yes."

"Well," the Jedi master continued in a milder vein, "perhaps there were extenuating circumstances. Suppose you share the rest of the tale with me, and I will in turn regale you with my own adventures."

"Misadventures," Obi-Wan pertly corrected him. "Any undertaking that ends in capture and interrogation cannot be considered a successful errand."

"If you say so. Where did we leave off?"

They had, in fact, left off at the point of bitter disagreement – but trust proved more resilient than resentment; a brief shared recollection of their last hard-edged words flitted between them, mortification flooding the bond from either end before wry apology smoothed over the dissonance, a sincere if silent exchange of things neither would frame in speech.

"Well," the young Jedi began, hoarsely, "There were… complications."

"As always."

"Yes." Obi-Wan briefly narrated his own misadventures, ruining the gripping tenor of his story with occasional droll commentary, referring to his marathon sprint as _a little jaunt,_ his epic battle with the murderous automata as _aggressive negotiations, _ and his encounter with the Paxellian legionary scouts as a _charming tête-à-tête. _ "At which point," he ended his recitation, "they quite understandably mistook me for an outstanding member of their pantheon_. _ And, ah, I thought it would be in poor taste to correct them on a matter pertaining to their religious beliefs, so…"

"So, in the interest of diplomacy, you boarded their ship and spearheaded a berserker raid upon the Trade Federation Core ship instead?"

"Well," the culprit peevishly defended himself, "I had to do _something."_

Qui-Gon chuckled grimly. I'm attributing _that_ to Master Dooku's baleful influence. I will not be held responsible for advocating such extremist methods."

"I don't think the Council will buy that excuse."

The older man grimaced. "Well, then, thank the Force you are old enough to take your own fall. I've borne the brunt of their disapprobation for too many years."

This amused both of them. They lapsed into a contemplative silence, mutually pondering the implications of all that had transpired. When Kerrn briefly reappeared to deliver two bowls of tasteless mush, they ate in silence, the gravity of the situation sinking in slowly, forming a coherent picture at long last.

The ramifications were broad and disturbing.

"I have a very bad feeling about this."

"As have I, Obi-Wan."

* * *

Which conversation was the sum total of their interchange for at least twelve hours. Obi-Wan quickly succumbed to sleep again, a mild delirium sullying his bright Force aura, a disturbance fit to match the cacophonous rumblings overhead. The Scythe swung, the Wanderers cringed and curled in their makeshift hovel; the Jedi master waited. And waited, and waited.

He returned from a brief conference with Kerrn at nightfall to find his young friend finally awake and brooding in earnest, an indecipherable expression in his lowered eyes as he traced one finger over the engraved surface of his ionite shard. He turned the carving over in his hand, palming it, and raised his face in mute greeting.

Their tiny shelter was snug and warm, thanks to the borrowed heating unit; Qui-Gon slid gratefully down beside his companion, stretching booted legs out before him. "You've meditated."

"A bit." The improvement was paltry, but still discernible. "One of us – someone- is going to have to stay here, you know. We can't abandon them." Obi-Wan accented the remark with a scowl.

Qui-Gon placed a hand on his knee. "I understand your … concern," he confessed. "But that someone is not _you;_ we will depart so soon as the storm abates."

The young Knight exhaled painfully , still nursing battered ribs and a badly wrenched shoulder. "And leave them _unprotected?"_

"Think," the tall man admonished, but without the customary tenor of authority in his tone. "The government's present resources have been decimated – they lie strewn across the plain, thanks to you. The Trade Federation will not dare make another move after our presence here was revealed… and as for the Paxellians…"

Obi-Wan smiled, fleetingly. "Olokk has forbidden further trespass. At least, I think that's what I said. It's hard to recall details – divine edicts grow so _tedious _ after a while."

"Which buys the people here a brief respite. Our efforts would be better spent on informing the Council, and thereby the Senate – and in formulating a long term plan to address the potential unrest here in the Rims."

His former student ran a hand through his tangled hair. "Staying here would be easier," he observed, ruefully.

"Easier, not better in the long run."

Here Obi-Wan favored him with a look of mock outrage. "The notorious Master Jinn counsels _foresight_ and a _strategic approach?_ Help, I'm in cardiac arrest."

But the implied accusation ran in both directions. "You are the one who is eager to succor pathetic life forms, and who – let us be honest – violated the greater number of protocols on this mission."

"I aspire to be worthy of my teacher. " The young Jedi allowed his head to fall back against the stone wall. "….And my vows."

Melancholy descended on gossamer wings. Qui-Gon reached across a hand and gently pried the ionite stone from his comrade's loose grasp, hesitating a moment to be sure the gesture would not cause offense. He considered the carven glyph upon its surface gravely, chest constricting softly. There was a calligraphic simplicity to the symbol: the flower destroyed, or perhaps subsumed, into the winged flame. He rubbed his thumb over the harsh tracery of the knife's blade, the edges of the image not yet worn smooth by time.

"It is difficult," he cautiously broached a topic they had never yet discussed in this novel context, as equals.

Obi-Wan glanced sideways, startled but hopeful. "You mean-"

"It is painful, too." the older man continued, closing his own fingers softly over the beautiful object.

"Is it worth it?"

Ah. The Jedi master released a long breath. No longer consigned merely to the role of guide, of flawless compass and polestar, he was left with the more challenging mantle of friendship. To succor, to teach- these were easy. To stand shoulder to shoulder with another, and to admit….

"I don't know," he confessed, adorning raw honesty with no gaudy justification. "I … forged my own compromise. And paid for it." He bowed his head, silently returning the stone to its owner. "I am sorry – I have no answer for you. But," – he sought vainly for words to convey the aching aspiration welling in his heart – "I will always keep your confidence. As you kept mine."

Tahl Uvain's name hung unspoken between them, a remembered luminance. Obi-Wan frowned, eyes boring into the opposite wall. "But, you said before… "

"That was then. This is now. And now, you are a man. And a Jedi. You must walk this path yourself. There are some roads that must be trod anew by every soul – I can offer only this counsel: pain lies both upon the way and to the side. Whether you stray or not, you must run its gauntlet. The other option is…. "

"No longer a choice." They fell silent, their newly compacted understanding buttressing an affection long in the making and forged in a relentless furnace of strife.

"We are not saints, but seekers," Qui-Gon intoned, feeling as never before the weight of the traditional admonition, the humility of the oft-quoted adage. For there was a path, and there was teaching – but in the final reckoning, he who forged ahead shed light only upon the next short stretch of a boundless journey. Those who drew breath in the same span of years, be it decade or century, in truth walked abreast upon destiny's road, side by side.

"Or in my case," Obi-Wan drawled, deftly alleviating the unbearable pressure of sentiment, "a veritable god."

They reverted, gracefully, to a well-practiced _kata._ "Only in your mind, my very young friend. Only in your mind."


	21. Chapter 21

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 21**

On the second day, the ion storm beat a dignified retreat, a draigon slinking back to the invisible fastness of its lair, leaving only a gloomy penumbra in its wake. Qui-Gon set out at dawn, hiking across the wide plains to the base of the forested rise, and thence up into the woods where the Jedi had left their shuttle upon their initial descent. Solitude provided him ample time for reflection, and reflection a proliferation of insight.

That moment aboard the Nemoidian ship – when Obi-Wan had appeared like a legendary genie, the deus ex machina bursting in upon a wicked narrator's scheme – had been revelatory. He had, for the first time in ten long years, seen his former apprentice from the outsider's perspective – as hero, as warrior, as savior, peacekeeper, as _Jedi._ The Force had been with him – and not a mere extension of Qui-Gon's own connection. No, this was different, resplendent in its own right, a flame set to burn in its own sanctuary lantern, kindled from a familiar hearth but shining now in its own right.

Not snuffed prematurely by Darkness, as Xanatos' light had been. Not drowned in the despair engendered by loss, as Qui-Gon's own had temporarily been. Not chilled to a pillar of icy purity, a merciless radiance like the passionless stars, as had Dooku's. No, this was warmth and compassion, fierce bright delight and grave intellect, open and yet guarded, hard and yet soft, somber and yet joyful – and above all, beneath all this: recklessly, absurdly courageous.

His stride lengthened, carrying him beneath the wide canopy of Niffrendi's native trees. A weight lifted from his shoulders, manifested as a spring in his loping gait. For that moment had also assuaged the most bitter doubt gnawing at his heart. He had seen in the young Jedi's face not obedience, not duty or abstract principle, not need or calculating expedience, but pure and simple _friendship._

And in that freely offered alliance, he found a second youth, the seed of true immortality.

The Force blazed about him, in soundless chorus.

And there, a staid matron primly waiting his return, stood the ship. Its hull was _coated _ in an decorative collage of avian droppings, gooey rivulets tracing an elaborate web upon the once gleaming surface. He chuckled, privately grateful that Obi-Wan was not here to see the fulfillment of his own grim prophecy – for surely the young man needed no further fodder for his wit, nor occasion to evidence his reputedly 'godly' powers.

He tramped up the sticky ramp with a smile of contentment playing about the corners of his mouth.

* * *

Under the glowering supervision of the cloud-laden skies, the Folk of the Stones went to work, harvesting the ionite deposits laid down by the Scythe's relentless swinging. Kernn's company marched back to the standing circle, where they found not only the astounding graveyard of eleven automated tanks, but also a windfall of the precious crystal more abundant than any before. By some serendipitous alchemy, the lightning's effect had been enhanced by the alloys in the tank shielding, somehow precipitating the creation of a lodestone effect; soon enough, small groups of prospectors were excavating the earth around the mangled machines, whooping and hollering to one another as they uncovered hoard after hoard of newborn treasures.

Obi-Wan watched the proceedings from the comfortable and relatively sheltered vantage point of a small glacial boulder. Pressed against a slight concavity at its base, and wrapped in two thermal blankets, he breathed deeply of the frosty, ozone-scented air. He would not – could not – remain another day within the suffocating confines of the Holes, despite all Qui-Gon's insistent exhortations that he _rest_ and keep warm. The Jedi master had obviously longed to issue an incontrovertible order, but had graciously resisted the temptation of long habit, issuing only a series of subtle reminders on his way out, the fretful clucking of a mother thranctill leaving its nest.

That image was worth a private chuckle or two. Obi-Wan pulled his too-thin coverings closer against the pervasive chill, and let his gaze wander form the diligent Folk up to the bruised face of the heavens. Black and green, yellow and grey, the smoky skies still bore the marks of last night's assault. Above them, somewhere high in orbit, the Nemoidian Core ship must still have loitered…

His mood plummeted unexpectedly from contentment into gnawing unease.

Whatever the ultimate end of the Paxellian raid upon the Trade Federation outpost, _blood_ was on his hands. Ghurb and Tord – and their associates – may have survived the raid… but it seemed unlikely. The young warriors had the advantage of surprise, ruthlessness, and – most pertinently – the promise of divine favor. Under such circumstances, it was probable that they had taken no prisoners, fighting until no foe was left standing, or else until they had been themselves felled, to the last man.

The disappearance of Olokk, and their own ship, they would have taken in stride, attributing both events to the caprice of their wily god. Perhaps the conquerors had pilfered a Nemoidian shuttle and were even now hastening back to their own realms, eager to report upon their first egress into Republic space. The Nemoidians, meanwhile, would send emissaries to determine the fate of their colleagues, and receive a nasty shock upon arrival. Niffrendi's government, robbed of its conspirator in illegal shipping contracts, would be plagued with the twin threat of economic ruin and broader reprisals from the Galactic Trade commission, stirring up further trouble and encouraging its leadership to court Hutt favor as a means of salvaging the situation. All in all, not a brilliant mission outcome.

He still had much to learn.

The wind clawed bitterly at his insufficient wrappings, and he pressed closely against the rock-face, mind spiraling further and further outward into the skein of connections, the infinite web of the potential. Niffrendi's fraudulent attacks had perpetuated rumor, which had transformed into a self –fulfilling prophecy, attracting the interest of genuine barbaric tribes in the sector, pretense tipping over the fulcrum of possibility into bland fact. It had been a dangerous gamble; what petty increase in profit margins could justify it? He _felt- he knew- _there must be more to the story. Why, in truth, did the Niffrendi desire to build a standing militia? Why, in truth, was the Trade Federation so keen on ferrying shiploads of ionite to Baktoid Armories _sub rosa?_ Who, in truth, was managing this affair, and again: why?

Why, why, why….

"Is this how you always fritter away your spare time?" a familiar voice chided.

He roused himself from an introspection so deep it bordered on unitive meditation; Qui-Gon was standing a pace away, cloaked and cowled against the night's biting chill.

"It's late," Obi-Wan remarked, surprised more by the abrupt departure of daylight than by the unheralded appearance of the older man.

"Kerrn's people have loaded the sleds and are ready to depart… as are we. I've brought the shuttle back down."

The young Knight stood, shivering. "So soon?"

"The storm has subsided; best to leave while we may be assured of a safe ascent. And, more pertinently, we are due at a rendezvous outside the system in three standard hours. A Service Corps freighter is being sent to meet us. They have a Jedi healer on board, in transit to the Core – and the capacity to send a secure transmission to the Temple ahead of our return."

Obi-Wan cocked a sardonic brow at the casual mention of _healers. _"Good. The sooner we can make a report, the better."

His pointed reply did not succeed in deflecting Qui-Gon's attention from the unwholesome subject of medical personnel. "The sooner we can get you patched up, the better," the tall man added, with infuriating placidity.

"I _can_ take care of myself."

They walked, slowly, toward Kerrn and the heavily-laden magtrain palettes. "That, Master Kenobi, is not under dispute; but it is an established fact that you never bother to _actually _do so."

Obi-Wan's mouth tightened, in a silent concession of defeat – very _temporary _defeat, he assured himself. He would deal with this 'healer' person when they embarked upon the freighter. For now he would be content to escape the biting frigidity of Niffrendi's night air. Focus on the present moment, was that not the key?

Kerrn shooed them on their way with a gruff gesture. "Bring yer own trouble with yer, wherever yer go, I reckon, " he grumbled, not without an undercurrent of humor. "In your debt, the Folk of the Stone are." He jerked his chin at the colossal mess still languishing upon the muddied plains, the battle-field detritus of some titanic clash. "But too much of a good thing's still too much."

"May the Force be with you." Obi-Wan solemnly bowed to the nomadic company's leader.

"You keep yer Force; we're stockpiling ionite. Stars watch over yer, now."

"Indeed." Qui-Gon also executed a graceful bow, and the two Jedi strode off in the direction of their own vessel, past the last rise.

"Covered in vile chisszzk," Obi-Wan muttered, fastidiously, upon catching sight of the hull. "_As_ I predicted."

"A Jedi craves not material luxury," Qui-Gon reminded him as they ascended the ramp. "Besides, it will burn off in the atmosphere."

"Hm. I'm piloting," the younger man decided, as breezy as ever despite the marked crimp in his trademark swagger.

* * *

The pilot spent the short flight in unrestrained brooding, perhaps a quarter of his attention spared for the console and nav computer. Qui-Gon did not interfere, for that was no longer his role… and he knew, from long experience, that the crux of his companion's convoluted thoughts would in due time be distilled into a humorous elixir or a potent draught of wisdom. He kept his own counsel, and waited for the inevitable slow transmutation of experience into knowledge.

They reached the rendezvous ahead of the Service Corps vessel, and hung suspended in empty space just clear of the star's far-flung gravity well.

"We didn't solve _anything," _ Obi-Wan sighed, at long last.

"The most frustrating aspect of an _investigative_ mission," the Jedi master answered, mildly. "But I think it is safe to say your actions will effectively _delay_ further perfidy by a generous margin."

The younger man tilted his head, pensive. "True."

Qui-Gon drummed fingers against his 'saber's hilt. "The Council will confer with the Chancellor, and he in turn with the Senate; beyond that, much depends on the Trade Federation's reaction to the inevitable accusations, and the behavior of the local government. For now, it is out of our hands."

The young Knight exhaled slowly, releasing nebulous anxiety. He drooped visibly where he sat, then withdrew the ionite shard from his tunic's inner folds and turned it idly between his fingers. "I meant to leave this upon the plain – that is their custom. They excise a part of their hearts with each carving… a cathartic ritual of sorts."

"Not every symbol is efficacious." Qui-Gon observed, gravely. "And not every tradition wise." He addressed the curved cockpit ceiling, feigning merely academic interest. "Denial is another form of attachment; to _reject_ a thing is merely to cling to it in a negative modality."

"Yes, I know."

"I know you know," the Jedi master smiled.

And that brought them full circle, back to a beginning.

The huge Service Corps vessel reverted to realspace a few points off their starboard bow, as though on cue. "And here is our ride home. Shall we?"

* * *

The Service Corps crew had sent a confounded _welcoming _party to meet them. Obi-Wan was intent upon effecting a neat getaway before the promised medico could interfere with his freedom; he strode down the shuttle's ramp into the vast freighter's docking hangar with all the aura of confident authority he could muster, given his disheveled appearance – hand on 'saber hilt, chin high, back straight and the Force _rampant_ about him, a proud invisible banner for all the gawking world to see.

No _healers_ for him, thank you.

"_Obiii!"_

He nearly stumbled upon the traction bar at the ramp's foot, heart skipping in undiluted joy. Behind him, Qui-Gon broke into a soft chuckle.

Before he could recompose his imperturbable façade, Bant Eerin had flung herself into his arms and wrapped him in an effusive hug, eliciting a rigid and soundless gasp of pain as she jostled his ribs and bad shoulder.

"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry! Obi, I missed you! I'm so happy to see you again! Oh, you're hurt, you stupid reckless gundark they said someone needed me but nobody told me it was you and – oh! Master Jinn."

The tall man returned her deferent bow, pacing unhurriedly across the decks to confer with the waiting tech crew and ship's officer.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi!" Bant gasped, globular eyes blinking in astonishment. "Where is your braid? You aren't! Are you…? " Her round mouth formed a perfect "o" of delight; two milky Mon Cal tears dribbled down her salmon-colored cheeks. "You _are," _she finished, reverently, wrapping him in another – but more cautious- hug.

She still smelled of salt and an elusive oceanic tang…he pressed his face against the top of her head. "Missed you, I did."

The Force quietly rejoiced, and Bant squeezed harder, making him whimper in protest.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Master Li told me you were home, that all was well – he never said -! Oh, he was just _waiting_ so you could spring it on me like this! And then you go off and, and – what _have _ you been up to?" The apprentice healer splayed both webbed hands on her hips, reverting to her professional role with alarming rapidity.

He managed a shaky grin. "This and that… piracy, warfare, espionage, flying through ion storms, all the usual." He glanced past her shoulder, to where Qui-Gon towered over the curious Service Corps volunteers and crewmen, eyes twinkling in open amusement.

"Well, you're all mine _now,"_ the Mon Cal informed him, grasping his good arm firmly in one hand, like a schoolmarm shepherding a recalcitrant child. "When are you ever going to learn to _take care_ of yourself?"


	22. Chapter 22

**Legacy**

**Book I**

* * *

**Chapter 22**

"He's really sort of cute when he's sleeping," Bant Eerin observed, philosophically, tucking her patient in and checking the placid biomonitor's settings.. "You would never know he's capable of scrapping a dozen tanks single-handedly."

"Appearances can be deceiving," Qui-Gon agreed, all but melting into the relative comfort of a plastoid chair in the ship's well appointed if small medbay. It was a relief to know that Obi-Wan would be recovered in short order, now that proper equipment, and expert skill, were at hand.

"They can indeed," the apprentice healer replied, huge round eyes fixing him with an uncomfortably perspicacious glare. ""Don't think you're fooling me, Master Jinn."

Vexed- and taken aback at the habitually timid Mon Cals' newly acquired imperiousness – he raised both brows. Apparently the young healer had learned _much_ during her two year tenure at Alderaan's premier university – enough to render rank and reputation insufficient defenses against her sense of _duty._

"You're next," Bant declared, fixing him with a look that channeled Ben To Li at his most vociferous and authoritative. "It was a beautiful serendipity that I was heading home aboard this ship; I think anyone else might have overlooked the less obvious." She folded her arms and stared down at the tall Jedi master, posture and bearing those of a woman who would brook no opposition.

Qui-Gon knew himself to be caught – and this time, there would be no Obi-Wan rushing to the rescue. He surrendered to his fate bravely, for he was a Jedi.

"Very well, Healer Eerin," he grumbled.

* * *

Bant had the great satisfaction of arriving home at the Temple on Coruscant with two subdued and sedate patients in tow, a conquering hero returning with the spoils of war, evidence of her vast prowess and skill. Even Ben To Li was impressed.

"You've done very well indeed," the silver haired senior healer murmured, fingering the end of his neatly trimmed beard. "I can't find a thing wrong with either of the impertinent whelps – except Kenobi here still entertains some laughable notions about the Teth conflicts. That, however, is a congenital defect ; there is no cure for terminal irrationality."

Obi-Wan merely raised his brows. "Did I mention I've met real Paxellian legionaries now?"

The healer tapped data into the release forms, snorting softly. "Next you'll be telling me you were abducted by them and worshiped as a divinity… showered with riches and slave girls, too, most likely."

"We didn't get quite as far as all that. I was rather busy with other things."

Ben To waved a dismissive hand at him. "You can bore me with your twaddle later. Right now, I'm _busy with other things."_

"Oh, I shan't take up any more of your valuable time," the young Knight promised, winking broadly at Bant. "Am I allowed out on parole now?"

"Yes- and Force forbid I see you again soon in any capacity but that of visiting pest. I've my hands full as it is. Pass that same message on to your accomplice, will you?"

"Of course, Master Li."

As though summoned by the thought, Qui-Gon Jinn appeared in the doorframe, neatly attired. "Here," he addressed his young counterpart. "The quartermaster sends his, ah… regards."

Obi-Wan accepted the pile of pristine cream and brown cloth with feigned apprehension.

"Master Pakkra's exact words," the messenger continued, blandly, "were: _tell Kenobi that if he requisitions another cloak inside the next ten-month, I'll fashion one for him out of his own irresponsible hide."_

"Oh dear!" poor Bant exclaimed.

"I'd like to see him try," the subject of the harsh threat muttered, changing into proper uniform with the ease of long habit.

"Take heart," the tall Jedi master counseled his former padawan. "The Council is likely to beat him to it. We are due in the south tower at meridian."

All levity fled the younger Jedi's demeanor. He shrugged into the new cloak, adjusting its voluminous hood to drape about his shoulders.

"What's this?" Ben To Li indulged in a dark chuckle. "Expecting censure from the Council, are we? The acorn does not fall far from the tree."

Knight and Master favored him with identical looks of disdain, and swept out into the corridor side by side, leaving the two healers to smile fondly in their wake.

* * *

"So let me summarize." Mace Windu's resonant baritone echoed darkly through the sun-drenched Council chamber. "You destroyed the governement's automated attack force, posed as a heathen deity, and unleashed a barbarian war party on the Nemoidian trade officers."

Obi-Wan bowed his head, hands folded tightly together inside wide cloak sleeves. "Yes, Master." He stood, encircled by twelve critical gazes, awaiting the inevitable reprisal for rash action.

"You do realize what is lacking here, Kenobi?" the Korun master continued, dark eyes glinting with a singularly fierce light.

Qui-Gon was far too jaded to be fazed by his childhood friend's stern tone, but it was painful to see his own protégé subjected to the same scathing chastisement that the gathered councilors habitually imposed upon himself He stirred impatiently, quashing an impulse to step bodily between Mace and the perceived felon.

"Yes, Master Windu; I am truly sorry."

"Really." A pause, in which the revered master's gaze flitted from the young Knight back to his tall and maverick companion, and then over to Yoda, who sat hunched in his own chair, mouth wrinkled into an inscrutable line. _"I_ would have jettisoned the Trade Federation cargo, too."

A bright flare of mischief lanced between the Korun and the youngest member of the assembly. Obi-Wan's head came up, blue eyes glittering with relief, gratitude, and – Qui-Gon's brows rose in surprise – recognition of a kindred spirit.

_And what sort of teaching relationship might _that_ have been?_ the older man wondered, briefly, momentarily encompassing Mace and Obi-Wan in one sweeping mental brushstroke. Surely it was a mercy of the Force they had never been paired; they would have exponentially multiplied each other's propensity for wreaking havoc and inordinate fondness for stick-up-the-arse Code-spouting.

He shielded _that_ thought very carefully, of course – though the swift sideways glance Obi-Wan spared him might have been laced with suspicion.

"Other than your somewhat novel definition of _reconnaissance,"_ Ki Adi Mudi mildly interjected, "the mission outcome is not poor. We now have a good idea what is stirring in that sector; knowledge is to be preferred to ignorance, no matter how ominous its ramifications."

"Hmmmph," old Yoda grunted, shifting testily. "Under pressure from Trade Federation, the Niffredni government acted; but what motive have the Nemoidians? Too risky for mere profit is this scheme."

Qui-Gon stepped forward. "I concur. Though Tord believed himself to be operating for the sake of material gain, there was something …. wrong.. with his mind. I felt Darkness within him."

"A puppet, you believe he was, Master Qui-Gon?"

"I do." The grim implications were wasted on none of them. "Though of whom, or what, I cannot say."

The abundant noontide light was leached of its warmth, a shadow of premonition settling over them all.

"But that leaves us with the question why," Adi Gallia mused. "What ulterior motive could anyone have for encouraging the formation of an independent militia in the Rims?"

Yan Dooku's glimmering blue hologram steepled its fingers. "The Republic's border territories have been crumbling into sedition for a century," the Shadow observed, coolly. "It is only the lack of _resources_ that prevents them from outright treason."

Mace scowled at his cynical colleague. "Then it behooves us to discover precisely _who_ is behind this gambit."

Dooku inclined his head, aristocratic features composed in a stern determination. "I shall make it my personal quest," he promised.

"Something more to say have you, Qui-Gon?'

The tall master nodded, conferring silently with his young partner before speaking. "Yes. I – we both – recommend that some protection be provided for the indigent natives of Niffrendi. It is they who stand to lose the most, and they who will be the first to suffer should these machinations start again.."

Yoda huffed and tapped clawed fingers against his chair's armrest. "Meditate upon it we will. Much trouble brewing in the Rim, there is. Need for greater Jedi involvement, perhaps."

Knight and Master bowed, delegating the responsibility to others, at least for the moment.

"May the Force be with you," Mace dismissed them.

* * *

"Obi-Nobi!"

Obi-Wan paused in mid-stride, excusing himself from Qui-Gon's company with a sprightly smile of apology, and hurried across the crowded concourse to greet his Twi'Lek comrade.

"Feld. Still unattached, I see."

But the blue-skinned Jedi grimaced expressively. "Obedience and duty, my friend."

They fell into step, heading by unspoken mutual consent toward the senior dojo level. "You've, ah, surrendered to the inevitable, then."

Feld's lekku twitched. He directed them toward an open door, the entrance to a teaching salle where an older initiate class was practicing 'saber drills. "I attended the tournament last week, while you were gone."

Obi-Wan raised his brows, expectant. "And?"

The Twi'Lek Knight straightened his spine manfully. "And allow me to introduce you personally."

The younglings filed out, respectfully nodding and bowing as they passed the pair. "Master Spruu. Master Kenobi. Excuse me, Masters. Pardon, Masters. "

And then, last in line: a nimble young Nautolan, her green headtails bound back with a thin leather tie, her enormous opalescent eyes shining with undisguised hero-worship. "Master!" she exclaimed, bowing very low indeed before Feld, whose air of serene authority was shattered by the ear to ear grin splitting his face. He placed both blue hands on the lithe girl's shoulders and turned her to face his friend.

"May I present my padawan learner, Zhoa Pleromata. Padawan, _this_ is the notorious Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Zhoa looked as though she might explode. She almost forgot to bow.

Stifling any expression of amusement, Obi-Wan dipped his head courteously. "Padawan. I am sure you will be a great Jedi one day, if you possess the patience to endure the rigors of Master Spruu's company for the next ten-year."

The young Nautolan all but shrank back against Feld's towering figure. "Master," she whispered, tugging at his tunic sleeve.

The Twi'Lek dropped to one knee and listened gravely as his apprentice murmured a question in his ear.

"Ah," he smiled, rising gracefully. "Obi-Nobi: Would you honor us by sharing evening meal tonight? I promise not to cook – we'll fetch something from the refectory."

"Well… so long as the fare is _edible._ It would be my pleasure."

Feld sent his student skipping away down the hall with a gentle wave of one hand. "What do you think, eh?" he inquired. "So sweet – I've dodged a blaster bolt. This is going to be _easy."_

"How old is she?"

"Not quite eleven yet." Feld congratulated himself upon his wise choice with a very smug smile.

"You are in deep trouble, my friend," Obi-Wan assured his confident acquaintance. "I look forward to watching the debacle unfold."

The Twi'Lek Knight chuckled. "You bastard. We dine at sixth hour."

* * *

The promised repast was unremarkable, but the company good. Feld listened enrapt to Obi-Wan's account of the affair on Niffrendi, gaping and guffawing at all the right places in the narrative, especially the episode involving Olokk, god of chaos.

"Attend carefully," the Twi'Lek advised his awestruck apprentice. "You are to emulate _nothing_ this man does."

"Yes, Master," Zhoa solemnly intoned, clearing away the dishes without being asked.

"Pull another stunt like that and they'll station you on Chandrila permanently," Feld warned his friend. Then, while his apprentice was distracted with dessert preparations, "And how, ah, is the partnership working out? You and Master Jinn make quite the team."

The young Knight found the question far easier to answer than he might previously have. "Being on assignment with Qui-Gon is always… lively." He paused, feeling the Force chime harmoniously in accord with the sentiment. "Of course, we're still getting to know one another."

Feld bestowed a very quizzical look upon him, but chose not to reply.

"I made this myself," Zhoa announced, reappearing in the spartan common room bearing a small platter of Nautolan sticky-rozz balls. "I hope you like it, Master Kenobi."

"I'm sure I shall. Thank you very much."

Their attention was pleasantly diverted into other channels for the rest of the evening.

* * *

When he returned to quarters late that night, Qui-Gon was – predictably enough- waiting up for him.

"You needn't have," Obi-Wan groused, good-humoredly.

"But when have I ever followed the dictates of reason?" the tall man playfully retorted. "As you have complained on innumerable occasions."

"Sola." The younger man yielded carelessly, forfeiting the contest before they had truly engaged. He knelt at the low table, noting that the tea was perfectly brewed, his arrival obviously anticipated down to the last minute. There was a strange comfort in being so… _familiar._

"I attended the late legislative session with Mace," Qui-Gon informed him, pouring the fragrant green liquid into two bowls. "Word travels fast; Niffrendi's planetary authorities have retraced their petition to the Senate – and the Trade Federation has denied any connection with Tord or Ghurb, claiming they were renegades."

Obi-Wan snorted. "Likely."

"The Chancellor and the Senate were relieved," the Jedi master elaborated. "Threats to the tenuous security of our borders are … too much… for the committee system to handle."

"But something must be done, Master. If unrest is stirring, as Master Dooku suggested… and if there is a malign power pulling puppet strings…"

"I know," Qui-Gon quietly replied. "The balance is shifting. We all feel it."

They did; the Republic slid vertiginously toward some undefined future, one veiled by shifting mantles of shadow and light. But in the moment, in the here and now, another balance had been attained, counterweight to the blurred horizons of the possible. A new poise and equilibrium settled into permanence between them, the strength of a legacy built upon solid foundations.

"There is no saying what the future may bring… but we shall face it together."

Their eyes met, no further words needful to compact their luminous alliance, the security of a hard-won peace.

And the Force rose with the coiling steam, settled with the warm air, surrounded them and penetrated them and bound all things together in the yoke of whatever that destiny might, in time, reveal.

**End Book I**

_**- **With hearty thanks to Valairy Scot for her invaluable editorial skills -_


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